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THE   SIGNAL 

AND  OTHER   STORIES 


THE  SIGNAL 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 
By  W.  M.  GARSHIN 

TRANSLATED     FROM    THE    RUSSIAN 

By  CAPTAIN   ROWLAND  SMITH 

OFTHE  BRITISH  EMBASSY,  PETROGRAD 


ALFRED  A.   KNOPF 
NEW  YORK.  MCMXVI 


Ys/ 


PRINTED   IK   GREAT   BRITAIN    BY 
BII.I.ING   AND   SONS,    LTD.,    GUILDFORD,    ENGI.AN'r 


PREFACE 

It  has  been  said  that  to  know  the  literature  of  a  country 
is  to  know  its  people,  and  to  know  a  people  is  to  appreciate 
them.  The  wealth  of  the  Russian  language,  its  nuance 
of  expression,  its  bewildering  detail  and  plentiful  use  of 
diminutives,  makes  its  translation  into  equivalent  Eng- 
lish especially  difficult.  But  I  trust,  nevertheless,  that 
this  volume  of  short  stories,  translations  from  the  Russian, 
may  assist  in  promoting  knowledge  in  England  of  Russia 
and  Russians. 

Nowhere  is  there  more  genuine  hospitality  than  in 
Russia,  and  in  no  other  country  is  there  greater  or  more 
general  kindliness  of  feeling. 

TRANSLATOR. 


GARSHIN 

(1855-1888) 

WsEWOLOD  MiCHAiLOViCH  Garshin,  the  "  melancholiac," 
as  he  is  sometimes  called,  was  of  good  family.  He  was 
born  in  February,  1855.  In  appearance  of  a  Southern 
type,  he  was  nice-looking,  and  possessed  a  sweetness  of 
disposition  and  a  temperament  sympathetic  to  a  degree 
unusual  in  a  man.  His  early  life  was  spent  on  the  family 
estate  with  his  parents,  his  father  having  retired  from  the 
army  in  1858.  When  nine  years  old,  he  was  placed  at 
school  in  St.  Petersburg.  His  original  intention  of  be- 
coming a  doctor  was  frustrated  by  the  issue  at  that  time 
of  a  Government  regulation  making  a  University  course 
obligatory  on  all  wishing  to  take  up  medicine.  He  early 
showed  an  abnormal  nervousness,  and  in  1872,  when  only 
seventeen  years  old,  was  temporarily  placed  under  re- 
straint. Recovering  his  sanity  in  1873,  and  having  com- 
pleted his  school  course,  he  entered  the  Institute  of  Mining 
Engineers  in  1874.  In  1876  the  Russo-Turkish  War 
broke  out.  x\lthough  the  horrors  of  war  affected  him 
very  deeply,  Garshin  considered  it  his  bounden  duty  to 
take  an  active  share  in  the  campaign,  and  enlisted  at 
Kishineif  as  a  private  in  an  infantry  regiment  of  the  line. 
He  displayed  great  gallantry  in  action,  was  wounded  in 
the  leg,  and  invalided  home.     From  this  time  his  mind 


viii  GARSHIN 

became  periodically  unhinged,  and  it  was  immediately- 
preceding  one  of  these  attacks  that  he  wrote  "  A  Night," 
which  bears  unmistakable  evidence  of  a  disordered  brain. 
Finally,  in  1887,  in  an  access  of  physical  and  mental 
agony,  he  succeeded  in  eluding  those  who  were  watching 
by  his  bedside,  and  threw  himself  down  a  flight  of  stone 
steps  which  formed  the  staircase  leading  to  his  apartment. 
He  inflicted  grave  injuries  to  himself,  and  added  to  his 
mental  trouble  by  brooding  over  the  state  of  mind  which 
had  led  him  to  commit  such  an  act.  He  was  shortly 
afterwards  transferred  to  a  hospital  for  better  treatment, 
where  he  expired  in  April,  1888,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty- 
three,  in  the  presence  of  some  of  his  always  numerous 
friends  and  a  devoted  wife. 

An  added  interest  is  given  to  his  stories  (he  only  wrote 
some  twenty  in  all),  from  the  fact  that  the  majority  of 
them  possess  a  groundwork  of  truth,  and  embody  per- 
sonal ideas  and  experiences,  or  those  of  friends  and 
acquaintances. 


GLOSSARY 


Alesha^  an  intimate  form  of  Alexander.     See  Names. 

Arshin,  equals  2^  feet  (approximately). 

Baba,  a  peasant  woman  (old). 

Barln,  Sir  or  Master  )  Words   used    by  servants    or  the   lower 

Barinia,  Ma'am  or  Mistress  J      classes  when  addressing  superiors. 

Chinovnik,  the  generic  name  of  all  officials,  but  more  usually  applied  to 

the  smaller  class  of  Government  officials.     Is  often  used  in  contempt. 
Dessiatine,  equals  270  acres. 

Droshky,  a  small  open  four-wheeled  hackney-carriage. 
Dvornik,  a  yard  porter.     Each  house  has  one  or  more  dvomiks,  whose 

duties  are  to  cut  and  carry  firewood,  etc.     They  are  also  responsible 

for  the  cleanliness  of  the  street  and  pavement  immediately  adjoining 

the  house,  and  must  assist  the  police. 
Dvu-grivennik,  a  silver  coin  of  the  value  and  size  of  sixpence. 
Euprakseiushka,  a  character  in  early  Russian  histor3\ 
Fortochka,  a  framed  pane  of  glass  in  a  window.     It  is  on  hinges,  and 

can  be  opened  for  ventilation  purposes  when  the  window  itself  is 

hermetically  sealed  up  for  the  winter. 
Gorodovoi,  a  policeman. 

Ilia  Murometz,  a  character  in  early  Russian  history. 
Ispravnik,  a  provincial  police  officer. 
Izvoschik,  a  cabman ;   used   indifferently  to   mean   the   man   or  his 

conveyance. 
Kaftan,  a  three-quarters  length  overcoat,  usually  of  leather  Uned  with 

sheepskin. 
Koliaska.     See  Droshky. 

Kopeck,  a  copper  coin  of  the  size  and  value  of  a  farthing. 
Krasnoe  Solnishko   (beautiful  sun),  a  famous  early  ruler  of  Russia, 

and  the  first  of  them  to  embrace  Christianity. 
Lineika,   a  four-wheeled   conveyance   usually  seating  ten   or  twelve 

persons  who  ride  back  to  back  as  in  an  Irish  car. 

ix 


X  GLOSSARY 

Masha,  an  intimate  form  of  Maria  or  Mary.     See  Names. 

Mateik,  the  name  of  an  artist. 

Miatel,  a  blizzard. 

Miekoff,  an  action  in  the  last  PoHsh  Rebellion. 

Moujik,  a  Russian  peasant  (man).  Often  used  to  mean  a  boor  or 
uncouth  person. 

Nada,  Nadia,  intimate  forms  of  Nadejda.     See  Names. 

Names.  Every  Orthodox  Russian  has  but  one  Christian  name  and  a 
patronymic  in  addition  to  his  surname,  which  last  is  not  used  in 
conversation.  In  the  case  of  a  man,  the  patronymic  is  formed  by 
adding  -ovich  to  his  father's  name,  or  -ovna  in  the  case  of  a  woman. 
Thus,  a  man  christened  Ivan  whose  father  bore  the  same  name  would 
be  known  as  Ivan  Ivanovich,  Similarly,  a  woman  christened  Olga 
whose  father's  name  was  Ivan  would  be  known  as  Olga  Ivanovna. 
In  addition  to  the  above  there  are  variations  of  the  Christian  name 
used  only  by  relatives  and  intimate  friends,  such  as  Vasia  or 
Vassenka,  intimate  forms  of  Vassilli,  Nada  or  Nadia,  intimate  forms 
of  Nadejda.  Thus,  a  man  whose  full  name  was  Simon  Ivanovich 
Spiridoff  might  be  addressed  as  such,  or  Simon  Spiridoff,  or  as 
Simon  Ivanovich.  or  Simon  Ivanich,  or  Senia,  or  Senichka,  dependent 
on  the  relations  between  the  two  persons. 

OpatofF,  an  action  in  the  last  PoUsh  Rebelhon. 

Pechenegs,  a  tribe  of  Turkish  origin  which  early  settled  itself  in  Russia. 

Poltinik,  a  silver  coin  of  the  value  and  size  of  a  shilling. 

Pood,  equals  36  pounds  avoirdupois. 

Pristaflf,  a  pohce  superintendent. 

Prorub,  a  hole  cut  out  in  the  ice. 

Rouble,  a  silver  coin  of  the  value  and  size  of  a  florin. 

Russ,  the  ancient  name  of  Russia. 

Sajene,  equals  7  English  feet. 

Samovar,  a  tea-um  in  which  the  water  is  boiled  and  kept  hot  by 
charcoal. 

Sasha,  an  intimate  form  of  Alexander  or  Alexandra.     See  Names. 
Semiradski,  a  Russian  artist. 

Senia,  Senichka,  intimate  forms  of  Simon  or  Simeon.     See  Names. 
Shuba,  a  fur-lined  overcoat  of  full  length. 
Sonia,  an  intimate  form  of  Sophia.     See  Names. 
Sotnia,  a  squadron  of  cavalry  (appUed  to  Cossack  troops  only). 
Traktir,  a  humble  kind  of  eating-house  frequented   by  the  working 
classes. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.    THE    SIGNAL     ------  I 

II.    FOUR    DAYS        -                  -                 -                  -                  -                  -  13 

III.    AN    INCIDENT-                  .                  -                 -                  -                  -  27*/ 

IV.    COWARD               -                 -                 -                 -                  -                 -  47  . 

V.    THE    MEETING                   -                                    .                  -                  -  72  . 

VI.  A  NIGHT           -               -               -               -               -               -  95y 

VII.    A    TOAD    AND    A    ROSE-                  ..                  _                  .                 -  I16 

VIII,    ATTALEA   PRINCEPS        -                 -                 -                  "                  -  1 24 

IX.  "make-believe"        -            -            -            -            -  133 

X.    OFFICER    AND    SOLDIER-SERVANT             -                  -                 -  1 39 

XI.    NADEJDA    NICOLAIEVNA  -  -  *  "15^ 

XII.    THE    SCARLET    BLOSSOM                .                 -                 -                 -  23O 

XIII.    THE    BEARS       .-----  249 

XIV.    THE    FROG    WHO    TRAVELLED    -                  -                  -                 -  270 

XV.    A    VERY    SHORT    ROMANCE           -                  -                 *                  -  276 

XVI.    FROM    THE    REMINISCENCES    OF    PRIVATE    IVANOFF        -  282 

XVII.    THE   ACTION    AT    AISLAR             _                  -                  -                  -  339 


^ 


THE    SIGNAL 

AND    OTHER    STORIES 

I 

THE  SIGNAL 

Simon  Ivanoff  was  a  linesman  on  the  railway.  From 
his  hut  it  was  twenty  versts  to  the  nearest  station  on  one 
side,  and  ten  versts  on  the  other.  Last  year,  about 
four  versts  away,  a  spinning-mill  had  opened,  and  its 
tall  chimney  stood  out  darkly  against  the  forest,  but 
except  for  the  huts  of  other  linesmen  there  was  no  living 
soul  nearer  him. 

Simon  Ivanoff' s  health  had  broken  down  generally. 
Nine  years  ago  he  had  been  at  the  war  and  had  acted  as 
servant  to  an  officer,  with  whom  he  served  right  through 
the  campaign.  He  had  starved,  been  roasted  by  the  sun, 
had  frozen,  and  had  made  marches  of  forty  and  fifty 
versts  in  the  heat  and  frost.  He  had  been  under  fire, 
but,  thank  God  !  no  bullet  had  touched  him.  Once  his 
regiment  had  been  in  the  first  line.  For  a  whole  week 
there  had  been  skirmishes  with  the  Turks  ;  the  Russian 
and  Turkish  firing-lines  had  been  separated  only  by  a 
deep  strath,  and  from  morn  till  eve  they  kept  up  a 
continuous  cross-fire.  Simon's  officer  had  also  been  in 
the  firing-line,  and  three  times  a  day  Simon  took  him  a 
steaming  samovar  and  his  dinner  from  the  regimental 
kitchen  in  the  ravine.  As  he  went  with  the  samovar 
along  the  open,  bullets  hummed  about  him,  and  snapped 


2  THE  SIGNAL 

viciously  against  the  stones  in  a  manner  terrifying  to 
Simon,  who  used  to  cry,  but  still  kept  on.  The  officers 
were  very  pleased  with  him,  because  there  was  always  hot 
tea  for  them.  He  returned  from  the  campaign  whole, 
but  with  rheumatism  in  his  hands  and  feet.  He  had 
experienced  no  little  sorrow  since  then.  He  arrived  home 
to  find  his  father,  an  old  man,  had  died  ;  his  little  four- 
year-old  son  also  dead  (his  throat),  so  there  only 
remained  Simon  and  his  wife.  They  could  not  do  much. 
It  w^as  difficult  to  plough  with  swollen  hands  and  feet. 
They  could  no  longer  stay  in  their  own  village,  and  they 
started  off  to  seek  fortune  in  new  places.  Simon  and  his 
wife  stayed  for  a  short  time  on  the  line,  in  Cherson  and 
in  Donschina,  but  nowhere  found  luck.  Then  the  wife 
went  out  to  service,  and  Simon,  as  formerly,  travelled 
about.  Once  he  happened  to  travel  on  an  engine,  and 
at  one  of  the  stations  he  saw  the  station-master,  whose 
face  seemed  familiar  to  him.  Simon  looked  at  the 
station-master  and  the  station-master  at  Simon,  and  they 
recognized  each  other.  He  had  been  an  officer  of  Simon's 
regiment. 

**  You  are  Ivanoff  ?"  he  said. 

"  Exactly,  Your  Excellency ;  that's  me." 

"How  have  you  got  here  ?" 

Simon  told  him  all. 

"  Where  are  you  off  to  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  sir." 

*'  You  idiot  !     How  '  can't '  you  tell  me  ?" 

"  Quite  true.  Your  Excellency,  because  there  is  no- 
where to  go.     I  must  look  for  work,  sir." 

The  station-master  looked  at  him,  thought  a  bit,  and 
said  :  "  Look  here,  friend,  stay  here  a  bit  at  the  station. 
You  are  married,  I  think.     Where  is  your  wife  ?" 

"  Yes,  Your  Excellency,  I  am  married.  My  wife  is  at 
Kursk,  in  service  with  a  merchant." 

"  Well,  write  to  your  wife  to  come  here.  I  will  give 
you  a  free  pass  for  her.      We  have   a  linesman's  hut 


THE  SIGNAL  3 

empty.     I  will  speak   to   the   District   Chief  on  your 
behalf." 

**  I  shall  be  very  grateful,  Your  Excellency,"  replied 
Simon. 

He  stayed  at  the  station,  helped  in  the  kitchen  of  the 
station-master,  cut  fire-wood,  kept  the  yard  clean,  and 
swept  the  platform.  In  a  fortnight's  time  his  wife 
arrived,  and  Simon  went  on  a  hand-trolley  to  his  hut. 
The  hut  was  a  new  one  and  warm,  with  as  much  wood 
as  he  wanted.  There  was  a  little  vegetable  garden,  the 
legacy  of  former  linesmen,  and  there  was  about  half  a 
dessiatine  of  ploughed  land  on  either  side  of  the  railway 
embankment.  Simon  was  rejoiced.  He  began  to  think 
of  doing  some  farming,  of  purchasing  a  cow  and  horse. 

He  was  given  all  necessary  stores — a  green  flag,  a  red 
flag,  lanterns,  a  horn,  hammer,  screw-wrench  for  the 
nuts,  a  crow-bar,  spade,  broom,  bolts,  and  nails  ;  they 
gave  him  two  books  of  regulations,  and  a  time-table  of 
the  trains.  At  first  Simon  could  not  sleep  at  night, 
and  learnt  the  whole  time-table  by  heart.  Two  hours 
before  a  train  was  due  he  would  go  round  his  section,  sit 
on  the  bench  at  his  hut,  and  look  and  listen  whether  the 
rails  were  trembling  or  the  rumble  of  the  train  could  be 
heard.  He  even  learned  the  regulations  by  heart, 
although  he  could  only  read  by  spelling  out  each  word. 

It  was  summer  ;  the  work  was  not  heavy ;  there  was 
no  snow  to  clear  away,  and  the  trains  on  that  line  are 
infrequent.  Simon  used  to  go  over  his  verst  twice 
a  day,  examine  and  screw  up  nuts  here  and  there,  keep 
the  bed  level,  look  at  the  water-pipes,  and  then  go  home 
to  his  own  affairs.  There  was  only  one  drawback — i.e., 
whatever  he  wished  to  do  he  had  first  to  obtain  per- 
mission of  the  Traffic  Inspector.  Simon  and  his  wife 
even  began  to  get  bored. 

Two  months  passed,  and  Simon  began  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  his  neighbours,  the  other  linesmen  on 
either  side  of  him.     One  was  a  very  old  man,  whom  the 


4  THE  SIGNAL 

authorities  were  always  meaning  to  relieve.  He  scarcely 
moved  out  of  his  hut.  His  wife  used  to  do  all  his  work. 
The  other  linesman  nearer  the  station  was  a  young  man, 
thin,  but  muscular.  He  and  Simon  met  for  the  first 
time  on  the  line  midway  between  the  huts.  Simon  took 
off  his  hat  and  bowed.  "  Good  health  to  you,  neigh- 
bour," he  said. 

The  neighbour  glanced  askance  at  him.  "  How  do 
you  do  ?"  he  replied  ;  then  turned  around  and  made  off. 

Later  the  wives  met.  Simon's  wife  passed  the  time  of 
day  with  her  neighbour,  but  she  also  did  not  say  much 
and  went  off. 

On  one  occasion  Simon  said  to  her  :  ''  Young  woman, 
your  husband  is  not  very  talkative." 

The  woman  said  nothing  at  first,  then  replied  :  "  But 
what  is  there  for  him  to  talk  with  you  about  ?  Every- 
one has  his  own  business.  Go  your  way,  and  God  be 
with  you." 

However,  after  another  month  or  so  they  became 
acquainted.  Simon  would  go  with  VassiH  along  the  line, 
sit  on  the  edge  of  a  pipe,  smoke,  and  talk  of  life.  Vassili, 
for  the  most  part,  kept  silent,  but  Simon  talked  of  his 
village,  and  of  the  campaign  through  which  he  had  passed. 

"  I  have  had  no  little  sorrow  in  my  day,"  he  would 
say  ;  **  and  goodness  knows  I  have  not  lived  long.  God 
has  not  given  me  happiness,  but  what  He  may  give,  so 
will  it  be.     That's  so,  friend  Vassili  Stepanich." 

Vassili  Stepanich  knocked  out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe 
against  a  rail,  stood  up,  and  said  :  "  It  is  not  luck  which 
follows  us  in  life,  but  human  beings.  There  is  no  wild 
beast  on  this  earth  more  ferocious,  cruel,  and  evil  than 
man.  Wolf  does  not  eat  wolf,  but  a  man  will  readily 
devour  man." 

"  Come,  friend,  don't  say  that ;  a  wolf  eats  wolf." 

*'  The  words  came  into  my  mind  and  I  said  it.  All  the 
same,  there  is  nothing  more  cruel  than  man.  If  it  were 
not  for  his  wickedness  and  greed  it  would  be  possible  to 


THE  SIGNAL  5 

live.  Everybody  tries  to  sting  you  to  the  quick,  to  bite 
and  devour  you." 

Simon  pondered  a  bit.  '*  I  don't  know,  brother,"  he 
said  ;  "  perhaps  it  is  as  you  say,  and  perhaps  it  is  God's 
will." 

"  And  perhaps,  then,"  said  Vassili,  "it  is  waste  of 
time  for  me  to  talk  with  you.  To  put  everything  un- 
pleasant on  God,  and  sit  and  suffer,  means,  brother,  being 
not  a  man  but  an  animal.  That's  w^hat  I  have  to  say." 
And  he  turned  and  went  off  without  saying  good-bye. 

Simon  also  got  up.  "  Neighbour,"  he  called,  "  why 
do  you  lose  your  temper  ?"  But  his  neighbour  did  not 
look  round,  and  went  on. 

Simon  gazed  after  him  until  Vassili  was  lost  to  sight 
in  the  cutting  at  the  turn.  He  went  home  and  said  to 
his  wife  :  "  Well,  Arina,  our  neighbour  is  a  wicked  person, 
not  a  man." 

However,  they  did  not  quarrel.  They  met  again,  and, 
as  formerly,  discussed  the  same  old  topics. 

"  Ah,  friend,  if  it  were  not  for  men  we  should  not  be 
sitting,  you  and  I,  in  these  huts,"  said  Vassili,  on  one 
occasion. 

**  And  what  about  the  huts  ?  .  .  .  not  so  bad ;  it  is 
possible  to  live  in  them." 

**  Possible  to  hve  in  them,  indeed  ! .  . .  Eh  !  You  ! . . . 
You  have  lived  long  and  learned  little,  looked  at  much 
and  seen  little.  What  sort  of  life  is  there  for  a  poor 
man  in  a  hut  here  or  there.  These  cannibals  are  devour- 
ing you.  They  are  extracting  all  your  life-blood,  and 
when  you  become  old,  they  will  throw  you  out  just  as 
they  do  with  husks  they  feed  pigs  on.  What  pay  do 
you  get?" 

"  Not  much,  Vassili  Stepanich — twelve  roubles." 

"  And  I,  thirteen  and  a  half  roubles.  Allow  me  to 
ask  you  why  ?  By  the  regulations  the  Company  should 
give  us  fifteen  roubles  a  month  with  firing  and  lighting. 
Who  decides  that  you  should  have  twelve  roubles,  or  I 


6  THE  SIGNAL 

thirteen  and  a  half  ?  Ask  yourself !  .  .  .  And  you  say 
it  is  possible  to  hve  !  You  understand  it  is  not  a  question 
of  one  and  a  half  roubles  or  three  roubles — even  if  they 
paid  us  each  the  whole  fifteen  roubles.  I  was  at  the 
station  last  month.  The  Director  passed  through,  so  I 
saw  him  ...  I  had  that  honour.  .  .  .  He  had  a  separate 
carriage,  came  out  and  stood  on  the  platform,  stood.  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  shall  not  stay  here  long ;  I  shall  go,  anywhere, 
follow  my  nose." 

"  But  where  will  you  go,  Stepanich  ?  One  does  not 
seek  good  from  good.  Here  you  have  a  house,  warmth, 
a  little  piece  of  land.     Your  wife  is  a  worker  .  .  .'* 

"  Land  !  You  should  look  at  my  piece  of  land.  Not 
a  twig  on  it — nothing.  I  had  planted  some  cabbages  in 
the  spring,  just  when  the  Traffic  Inspector  came  along. 
He  said  :  '  What  is  this  ?  Why  have  you  not  reported 
this  ?  Why  have  you  done  this  without  permission  ? 
Dig  them  up,  roots  and  all.'  He  was  drunk.  Another 
time  he  would  not  have  said  a  word,  but  this  time  it  got 
into  his  head  .  .  .  three  roubles  fine  !  .  .  ." 

Vassili  kept  silent  for  a  while,  pulling  at  his  pipe,  then 
added  quietly :  "  A  little  more  and  I  should  have  done  for 
him." 

"  But,  neighbour,  you  are  hot-tempered." 

"  No,  I  am  not  hot-tempered,  but  I  tell  the  truth  and 
think.  Yes,  he  will  still  get  a  bloody  nose  from  me.  I 
will  complain  to  the  District  Chief.  We  will  see  then  !" 
And  he  did  complain. 

Once  the  District  Chief  came  along  to  inspect  the  line. 
Three  days  later  important  personages  were  coming  from 
St.  Petersburg,  were  to  pass  over  the  line.  They  were 
conducting  an  inquiry,  so  that  previous  to  their  journey 
it  was  necessary  to  put  everything  in  order.  Ballast  was 
laid  down,  the  bed  was  levelled,  the  sleepers  carefully 
examined,  spikes  driven  in  a  bit,  nuts  screwed  up,  posts 
painted,  and  orders  were  given  for  yellow  sand  to  be 
sprinkled   at   the  level  crossings.     The  woman  at   the 


THE  SIGNAL  7 

neighbouring  hut  turned  her  old  man  out  to  weed. 
Simon  worked  for  a  whole  week.  He  put  everything  in 
order,  mended  his  kaftan,  cleaned  and  polished  his 
brass  plate  with  a  piece  of  brick  until  it  fairly  shone. 
Vassili  also  worked  hard.  The  District  Chief  arrived  on 
a  trolley,  four  men  worked  the  handles,  the  levers  making 
the  six  wheels  hum.  The  trolley  travelled  at  twenty  versts 
an  hour,  but  the  wheels  squeaked.  It  reached  Simon's 
hut,  and  he  ran  out  and  reported  in  soldierly  fashion. 
All  appeared  to  be  in  repair. 

*'  Have  you  been  long  here  ?"  inquired  the  Chief. 

*'  Since  the  second  of  May,  Your  Excellency." 

'*  All  right.     Thank  you.     And  who  is  at  hut  No.  164  ?" 

The  Traffic  Inspector  (he  was  travelHng  with  the  Chief 
on  the  trolley)  replied  :  "  Vassili  Spiridoff." 

"  Spiridoff.  Spiridoff.  .  .  .  Ah  !  is  he  the  man  against 
whom  you  made  a  note  last  year  ?" 

"  The  same." 

"  Well,  we  will  see  Vassih  Spiridoff.  Go  on  !"  The 
workmen  laid  to  the  handles,  and  the  trolley  got  under 
way.  Simon  watched  it,  and  thought,  "  Well,  there  will 
be  trouble  between  them  and  my  neighbour." 

About  two  hours  later  he  started  on  his  round.  He 
saw  someone  coming  along  the  line  from  the  cutting. 
Something  white  showed  on  his  head.  Simon  began  to 
look  more  attentively.  It  was  Vassili ;  he  had  a  stick 
in  his  hand,  a  small  bundle  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  cheek 
was  bound  up  in  a  handkerchief. 

"  Where  are  you  off  to,  neighbour  ?"  cried  Simon. 

Vassili  came  quite  close.  He  was  very  pale,  white  as 
chalk,  and  his  eyes  had  a  wild  look.  Almost  choking, 
he  muttered  :  "  To  the  town — to  Moscow — to  the  Head 
Office." 

"  Head  Office  ?  Ah,  you  are  going,  I  suppose,  to 
complain.     Give  it  up  !     Vassili  Stepanich,  forget  it.  .  .  ." 

"  No,  mate,  I  will  not  forget.  It  is  too  late.  See  ! 
He  struck  me  in  the  face,  drew  blood.     So  long  as  I 


a  THE  SIGNAL 

live  I  will  not  forget.  ...  I  will  not  leave  it  like 
this  !  .  .  ." 

Simon  took  him  by  the  hand.  "  Give  it  up, 
Stepanich.  I  am  advising  you  truly.  You  will  not 
better  things.  ..." 

"  Better  things  !  I  know  myself  that  I  shall  not  do 
better.  You  spoke  truly  about  Fate.  Better  for  myself 
not  to  do  it,  but  one  must  stand  up  for  the  right, 
mate." 

"  But  tell  me,  how  did  it  all  happen  ?" 

"  How  ?  .  .  .  He  examined  everything,  got  down 
from  the  trolley,  looked  into  the  hut.  I  knew  beforehand 
that  he  would  be  strict,  and  so  put  everything  into  proper 
order  as  it  should  be.  He  was  just  going  when  I  made 
my  complaint.  He  immediately  cried  out :  '  Here,'  he 
said,  '  is  a  Government  inquiry  coming,  and  you  make 
a  complaint  about  a  vegetable  garden.  Here,'  he  said, 
*  are  Privy  Councillors  coming,  and  you  come  worrying 
about  cabbages  !  .  .  .'  I  lost  patience  and  said  some- 
thing— not  very  much,  but  it  offended  him,  and  he  struck 
me  in  the  face  .  .  .  and  I  stood  still ;  I  did  nothing,  just  as 
if  it  was  in  the  proper  order  of  things.  They  went  off  ; 
I  came  to  myself,  washed  my  face,  and  left." 

"  And  what  about  the  hut  ?" 

"  The  wife  has  stayed.  She  will  look  after  things 
all  right.     Never  mind  about  their  roads." 

Vassili  got  up  and  collected  himself.  *'  Good-bye, 
Ivanoff.  ...  I  do  not  know  whether  I  shall  get  anyone 
at  the  Office  to  hear  me." 

'*  Surely  you  are  not  going  to  walk  ?" 

"  At  the  station  I  will  try  to  get  on  a  goods- train,  and 
to-morrow  I  shall  be  in  Moscow." 

The  neighbours  bade  each  other  farewell.  Vassili  was 
absent  for  some  time.  His  wife  worked  for  him  night 
and  day.  She  never  slept,  and  wore  herself  out  waiting 
for  her  husband.  On  the  third  day  the  commission 
arrived.     An   engine,    luggage- van,    and    two   first-class 


THE  SIGNAL  9 

saloons  ;  but  Vassili  was  still  away.  Simon  saw  the  wife 
on  the  fourth  day.  Her  face  was  swollen  from  crying 
and  her  eyes  were  red. 

"  Has  your  husband  returned  ?"  he  asked.  But  the 
woman  only  made  a  gesture  with  her  hands,  and  without 
saying  a  word  went  her  way. 

*  *  *  *  -x- 

Simon  had  learnt  when  still  a  lad  to  make  flutes  out 
of  a  kind  of  reed.  He  used  to  burn  out  the  heart  of  the 
stalk,  make  holes  where  necessary,  drill  them,  make  a 
mouthpiece  at  one  end,  and  tune  them  so  well  that  it 
was  possible  to  play  almost  anything  you  wanted  on 
them.  He  made  a  number  of  them  in  his  spare  time, 
and  sent  them  by  his  friends  amongst  the  guards  on  the 
goods- trains  to  the  bazaar  in  the  town.  He  got  two 
kopecks  apiece  for  them.  On  the  day  following  the 
visit  of  the  commission  he  left  his  wife  at  home  to  meet 
the  six  o'clock  train,  and,  taking  a  knife,  started  off  to 
the  forest  to  cut  some  sticks.  He  went  to  the  end  of  his 
section — at  this  point  the  line  makes  a  sharp  turn — went 
down  the  embankment,  and  went  into  the  wood  under 
the  mountain.  About  half  a  verst  away  there  was  a 
big  marsh,  around  which  there  grew  splendid  bushes  out 
of  which  to  make  his  flutes.  He  cut  a  whole  bundle  of 
sticks  and  started  back  home.  As  he  went  through  the 
wood  the  sun  was  already  getting  low,  and  in  the  dead 
stillness  only  the  twittering  of  the  birds  was  audible, 
and  the  crackle  of  the  dead  wood  under  his  feet.  As 
Simon  walked  along  rapidly  and  easily  he  fancied  he 
heard  the  clang  of  iron  striking  iron,  and  he  redoubled 
his  pace.  There  was  no  repair  going  on  in  his  section 
at  this  time.  What  did  it  mean  ?  he  wondered.  Coming 
out  on  to  the  fringe  of  the  wood,  the  railway  embank- 
ment stood  high  before  him ;  on  the  top  of  it  a  man 
was  squatting  on  the  bed  of  the  Hne  busily  engaged  in 
something.  Simon  commenced  to  crawl  up  quietly 
towards   him.     He  thought  that  it  was  someone  after 


10  THE  SIGNAL 

the  nuts  which  secure  the  rails.  He  watched,  and  a 
man  got  up,  holding  a  crow-bar  in  his  hand.  He  had 
loosened  a  rail  with  it,  so  that  it  would  move  to  one  side. 
A  mist  came  before  Simon's  eyes  ;  he  wanted  to  cry  out, 
but  could  not.  It  was  Vassili !  .  .  .  Simon  scrambled 
up  the  bank  as  Vassili  with  crow-bar  and  wrench  slid 
headlong  down  the  other  side. 

"  Vassili  Stepanich  !  For  the  love.  .  .  .  Old  friend  ! 
Come  back  !  Give  me  the  crow-bar.  We  will  put  the 
rail  back ;  no  one  will  know.  Come  back  !  Save  your 
soul  from  this  sin  !" 

Vassih  did  not  look  back,  but  disappeared  into  the 
wood. 

Simon  stood  before  the  rail  which  had  been  torn  up. 
He  threw  down  his  bundle  of  sticks.  A  train  was  due  ; 
not  a  goods-train,  but  a  passenger-train.  And  he  had 
nothing  with  which  to  stop  it,  no  flag.  He  could  not 
replace  the  rail  and  could  not  drive  in  the  spikes  with 
his  bare  hands.  It  was  necessary  to  run,  absolutely 
necessary  to  run  to  the  hut  for  some  tools.  "  God  help 
me  !"  he  murmured. 

Simon  started  running  towards  his  hut.  He  was  out 
of  breath,  but  still  ran,  falling  every  now  and  then. 
He  had  cleared  the  forest ;  there  only  remained  another 
hundred  sajenes  to  the  hut,  not  more,  when  he  heard 
the  distant  hooter  of  the  factory  sound — six  o'clock  ! 
In  two  minutes'  time  No.  7  train  was  due.  *'  Oh,  Lord  ! 
Have  pity  on  innocent  souls  !"  In  his  mind  Simon  saw 
the  engine  strike  against  the  loosened  rail  with  its  left 
wheel,  shiver,  careen,  tear  up  and  splinter  the  sleepers — ■ 
and  just  there,  there  was  a  curve  and  the  embankment 
eleven  sajenes  high,  down  which  the  engine  would 
topple — and  the  third-class  carriages  would  be  packed  .  .  . 
little  children.  .  .  .  They  are  all  sitting  in  the  train  now 
not  dreaming  of  any  danger.  "  Oh,  Lord  !  Tell  me  w^hat 
to  do  !  .  .  .  No,  it  is  not  possible  to  run  to  the  hut  and 
get  back  in  time." 


THE  SIGNAL  ii 

Simon  did  not  run  on  to  the  hut,  but  turned  back  and 
ran  faster  than  before.  He  was  running  almost  mechani- 
cally, blindly;  he  did  not  know  himself  what  was  to  happen. 
He  ran  as  far  as  the  rail  which  had  been  pulled  up  ;  his 
sticks  were  lying  in  a  heap.  He  bent  down,  seized  one 
without  knowing  why,  and  ran  on  farther.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  the  train  was  already  coming.  He  heard  the 
distant  whistle ;  he  heard  the  quiet,  even  tremor  of  the 
rails ;  but  his  strength  was  exhausted,  he  could  run  no 
farther,  and  came  to  a  halt  about  one  hundred  sajenes 
from  the  awful  spot.  Then  an  idea  came  into  his  head, 
literally  like  a  ray  of  light.  Pulling  off  his  cap,  he  took 
out  of  it  a  cotton  scarf,  drew  his  knife  out  of  the  upper 
part  of  his  boot,  and  crossed  himself,  muttering,  "  God 
bless  me  !" 

He  buried  the  knife  into  his  left  arm  above  the  elbow  ; 
the  blood  spurted  out,  flowing  in  a  hot  stream.  In  this 
he  soaked  his  scarf,  smoothed  it  out,  tied  it  to  the  stick 
and  hung  out  his  red  flag. 

He  stood  waving  his  flag.  The  train  was  already  in 
sight.  The  driver  will  not  see  him — will  come  close  up, 
and  a  heavy  train  cannot  be  pulled  up  in  a  hundred 
sajenes. 

And  the  blood  kept  on  flowing.  Simon  kept  pressing 
the  sides  of  the  wound  together  wanting  to  close  it,  but 
the  blood  did  not  diminish.  Evidently  he  had  cut  his 
arm  very  deeply.  His  head  commenced  to  swim,  black 
spots  began  to  dance  before  his  eyes,  and  then  it  became 
dark.  There  was  a  ringing  in  his  ears.  He  could  not 
see  the  train  or  hear  the  noise.  Only  one  thought 
possessed  him.  "  I  shall  not  be  able  to  keep  standing 
up.  I  shall  fall  and  drop  the  flag ;  the  train  will  pass 
over  me.  .  .  .     Help  me,  oh  Lord  !  .  .  ." 

All  became  quite  black  before  him,  his  mind  became 
a  blank,  and  he  dropped  the  flag  ;  but  the  blood-stained 
banner  did  not  fall  to  the  ground.  A  hand  seized  it  and 
held  it  high  to  meet  the  approaching  train.     The  engine- 


12  THE  SIGNAL 

driver  saw  it,  shut  the  regulator,  and  reversed  steam. 
The  train  came  to  a  standstill. 

People  jumped  out  of  the  carriages  and  collected  in  a 
crowd.  Looking,  they  saw  a  man  lying  senseless  on  the 
footway,  drenched  in  blood,  and  another  man  standing 
beside  him  with  a  blood-stained  rag  on  a  stick. 

Vassili  looked  around  at  all;  then,  lowering  his  head, 
said  :  "  Bind  me  ;  I  have  pulled  up  a  rail !" 


II 

FOUR  DAYS 

I  REMEMBER  how  we  rushed  through  the  wood  ;  how  the 
leaves  and  twigs  came  fluttering  and  twisting  down  on 
us  as  the  humming  bullets  cut  their  way  through  the 
thick  foliage.  I  remember  how,  as  we  pushed  through 
the  thick  and  prickly  undergrowth,  the  firing  became 
hotter  and  the  fringe  of  the  wood  became  alive  with  little 
spurts  of  flame  which  flashed  redly  from  all  points.  I 
remember  how  Sedoroff,  a  recruit  of  No.  i  Company 
(How  had  he  got  into  our  firing-line  ?  flashed  through  my 
mind),  suddenly  sat  down,  and  without  sa5dng  a  word 
gazed  at  me  with  big  startled  eyes  as  a  little  stream  of 
blood  commenced  to  trickle  from  his  mouth.  Yes,  I 
remember  it  well.  I  remember  also  how,  just  as  we  were 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  wood,  I  first  saw  him  in  the  thick 
bushes.  He  was  a  huge  and  bulky  Turk,  but  I  ran 
straight  at  him  although  I  am  small  and  weak.  There 
was  a  deafening  noise ;  something  enormous  seemed  to  flash 
past  me,  making  my  ears  ring.  He  has  fired  at  me,  I 
thought.  I  remember  how  with  a  scream  of  fear  he 
pressed  himself  backwards  into  a  thick  and  prickly  bush, 
although  he  could  easily  have  gone  round  it,  but  he  could 
remember  nothing  from  fright,  and  strove  instead  to  push 
his  way  into  its  prickly  branches. 

With  a  blow  I  disarmed  him,  and  lunged  with  my 
bayonet.  There  was  an  indrawn  sob  and  a  piteous 
groan.     Then   I   rushed   on.     We  cheered   as  we  went 

13 


14  FOUR  DAYS 

forward,  some  falling,  some  firing.  I  remember  I  fired 
several  times.  We  were  already  out  of  the  wood  into  the 
open.  Suddenly  the  cheers  became  a  long  loud  roar,  and 
we  all  rushed  forward.  That  is,  the  line  did,  but  not  I, 
because  I  stayed  behind.  Something  strange  seemed  to 
have  happened,  and  then,  stranger  still,  everything 
disappeared,  all  the  cries  and  firing  died  away.  I  could 
hear  nothing,  and  saw  only  something  blue,  which  must 
have  been  the  sky.  Then  it,  too,  disappeared. 
***** 

I  was  never  in  such  a  strange  position.  I  am  lying 
apparently  on  my  stomach,  and  can  see  in  front  of  me  only 
a  little  clod  of  earth,  a  few  blades  of  grass,  up  one  of 
which  an  ant  is  climbling  head  downwards,  and  some  little 
mounds  of  dust,  last  year's  dead  grass.  This  is  my  whole 
world,  and  I  can  only  see  with  one  eye  because  the  other 
one  is  being  pressed  by  something  hard  ;  it  must  be  the 
bough  against  which  my  head  is  resting.  It  is  dreadfully 
awkward,  and  I  absolutely  cannot  understand  why, 
when  I  want  to,  I  cannot  move.  And  so  the  time 
passes — I  hear  the  chirrup  of  grasshoppers,  the  humming 
of  bees — nothing  more.  At  last  I  make  an  effort,  free 
my  right  arm  from  under  my  body,  and,  resting  both 
hands  on  the  ground,  I  try  to  kneel. 

Something  sharp  goes  like  lightning  right  through  my 
body  from  my  knees  to  my  chest,  from  my  chest  up  to 
my  head ;  and  again  I  fall,  again  darkness,  again  a  blank. 
***** 

I  am  awake,  but  why  do  I  see  stars  shining  brightly 
in  the  black-blue  of  a  Bulgarian  night  ?  Surely  I  am  in 
a  tent  ?  Then  why  have  I  crawled  out  of  it  ?  I  make  a 
movement,  and  feel  an  excruciating  pain  in  my  legs. 
Ah,  now  I  understand.  I  have  been  wounded.  Danger- 
ously ?  I  catch  hold  of  my  leg  where  it  is  hurting.  Both 
right  and  left  legs  are  covered  with  clotted  blood.  When 
I  touch  them  with  my  hands  the  pain  is  worse.  It  is  like 
toothache,  a  throbbing,  sickening  pain.     There  is  a  singing 


FOUR  DAYS  15 

in  my  ears  and  my  head  feels  leaden.  Vaguely  I  under- 
stand that  I  have  been  wounded  in  both  legs.  But  why 
have  they  not  picked  me  up  ?  The  Turks  cannot  have 
beaten  us  !  I  commence,  confusedly  at  first,  then  more 
clearly,  to  remember  what  happened,  and  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  we  were  far  from  being  defeated.  Because 
I  fell  (this,  by  the  way,  I  do  not  remember,  but  I  do 
remember  how  they  all  rushed  forward,  and  that  I  could 
not,  and  saw  nothing  but  blue)  on  the  field  on  the  hill, 
and  that  was  the  field  to  which  our  little  officer  had 
pointed  and  said,  "  Children,  we  must  get  there  !"  So  of 
course  we  had  not  been  beaten.  But  why,  then,  have 
they  not  picked  me  up  ?  Surely  here  in  this  field — open 
ground — everything  is  visible.  Besides  which,  I  cannot 
be  the  only  one  lying  here.  The  firing  was  too  hot.  I 
must  turn  my  head  and  look.  I  can  do  this  more  easily 
now,  because  when  I  came  to  my  senses  and  was  able  to 
see  only  grass  and  that  ant  climbing  with  its  head  down- 
wards I  tried  to  raise  myself,  and  when  I  fell  again  it 
was  not  into  the  old  position,  but  on  to  my  back.  That 
is  why  I  can  see  the  stars. 

I  try  to  raise  myself  mto  a  sitting  position.  It  is 
difiicult  when  both  legs  are  shot  through.  Several  times 
I  almost  give  it  up  in  despair,  but  at  last,  with  tears  in 
my  eyes  from  the  awful  pain,  I  succeed. 

Above  me — a  scrap  of  black-blue  sky  in  which  a  big 
star  is  burning  and  several  smaller  ones.  Around  me 
something  dark  and  tall — bushes  !  I  am  amongst  the 
bushes  !  They  have  missed  me  !  I  feel  how  the  very 
roots  of  my  hair  move  as  I  realize  this.  But  how  did  I 
get  into  the  bushes  when  they  hit  me  in  the  open  ? 
When  I  was  wounded  I  must  have  crawled  here  without 
remembering  it,  owing  to  the  pain ;  only  it  is  odd  that  now 
I  cannot  stir,  but  then  was  able  to  drag  myself  to  these 
bushes.  Perhaps  I  had  only  been  hit  once  then,  and  the 
second  bullet  caught  me  here.  There  are  pinkish  stains 
around  me.  .  .  . 


i6  FOUR  DAYS 

The  big  star  has  begun  to  pale,  and  the  smaller  stars 
have  disappeared.  It  is  the  moon  rising.  How  pretty 
it  must  be  at  home  now  !  .  .  .  Strange  noises  keep 
reaching  me  as  if  somebody  was  groaning.  Yes,  they  are 
groans.  Is  it  somebody  else,  also  forgotten,  lying  near 
me  with  legs  shot  through  or  a  bullet  in  his  stomach  ? 
No,  the  groans  are  so  close,  whilst  there  is  no  one,  it 
seems,  near  me.  ...  It  cannot  be  ? — yes,  it  is  I  who  am 
groaning  and  making  these  pitiful  noises.  .  .  .  Surely  it 
is  not  so  painful  really  ?  I  suppose  it  must  be,  only  I 
do  not  understand  why  I  am  in  such  pain  because  my 
head  is  leaden  and  everything  seems  misty.  Better  lie 
down  again  and  sleep,  sleep.  .  .  .  Only,  shall  I  ever  awake 
again  ?     Anyhow,  it  does  not  matter. 

Just  as  I  commence  to  lie  down  a  broad  pale  gleam  of 
moonlight  clearly  shows  up  the  place  where  I  am  lying, 
and  I  see  something  dark  and  big  on  the  ground  about 
five  paces  from  me.  Something  glistens  on  it  in  the 
moonlight.  Is  it  buttons  or  equipment  ?  Is  it  a  corpse 
or  somebody  wounded  ? 

Never  mind,  I  will  lie  down.  .  .  . 

No  !  impossible  !  Our  men  cannot  have  gone.  They 
are  here ;  they  have  driven  out  the  Turks  and  are  campnig 
on  the  position.  Then  why  no  voices  ?  no  crackling  of 
camp-fires  ?  Probably  I  am  so  weak  I  cannot  hear. 
Of  course  they  must  be  here. 

"  Help  !  help  !  help  !" 

The  wild,  maddened,  hoarse  cries  are  wrung  from  me. 
but  there  is  no  answer.  Loudly  they  resound  in  the  night 
air,  but  everything  else  remains  silent.  Only  the  grass- 
hoppers keep  up  their  chirruping.  The  moon  is  looking 
down  at  me  with  a  pitying  gaze. 

If  he  was  somebody  wounded  my  shouts  would  have 
roused  him.  It  is  a  corpse.  One  of  us  or  a  Turk  ?  But 
is  it  not  all  the  same  ?  And  sleep  is  closing  my  fevered 
eyelids. 


FOUR  DAYS  17 

I  am  lying  with  closed  eyes,  although  I  woke  up  long 
ago.  I  do  not  want  to  open  them  because  through  the 
closed  lids  I  can  feel  the  sun,  and  if  I  open  my  eyes  the 
sun  will  scorch  them.  Besides,  better  not  to  move.  .  .  . 
Yesterday  (I  suppose  it  was  yesterday)  they  wounded 
me  ...  a  whole  day  has  gone  past,  others  will  pass  by,  and 
I  shall  die.  It  is  all  the  same.  Better  not  to  move. 
If  only  I  could  stop  my  brain  working  !  But  nothing 
will  stop  it.  Ideas,  recollections,  thoughts  come  crowding 
in.  However,  all  this  is  not  for  long,  the  end  will  soon 
come.  There  will  be  just  a  few  lines  in  the  newspapers 
that  our  losses  were  insignificant  : — wounded  ...  so  many  ; 
killed — one.  Private  Ivanoff — no,  the  names  of  the  men 
are  not  given,  they  simply  say  killed  .  .  .  one.  One  private, 
as  if  it  were  one  dog. 

All  the  details  of  an  incident  which  happened  long  ago 
flash  to  my  mind.  By  the  way,  how  long  ago  all  my  life 
seems — I  mean  that  life  when  I  was  not  lying  here  with 
my  legs  shot  through.  .  .  . 

I  was  going  along  the  street  when  I  was  stopped  by  a 
crowd  which  had  gathered  and  was  silently  gazing  at 
something  white  covered  with  blood  lying  on  the  roadway 
whining  piteously — a  little  dog  which  had  been  run  over 
by  a  tramcar.  It  was  dying,  as  I  am  now.  A  dvornik 
pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd,  picked  it  up  by  the 
back  of  the  neck,  and  carried  it  away,  and  the  crowd  dis- 
persed. Will  anyone  take  me  away  ?  No  . .  .  you  will  lie  here 
and  die.  And  how  good  is  life  !  How  happy  I  was  that 
day !  I  went  along  as  if  intoxicated.  Recollections  !  do 
not  torture  me  !  Leave  me  alone  with  this  present  torture, 
then  at  least  I  cannot  involuntarily  make  comparisons. 
Oh,  this  longing  for  home  !     It  is  worse  than  wounds. 

However,  it  is  getting  hot.  The  sun  is  scorching  me. 
I  open  my  eyes  and  see  the  same  bushes,  the  same  sky, 
only  by  daylight  .  .  .  and  there  is  my  neighbour.  Yes,  he 
is  a  Turk,  a  corpse.  What  a  huge  man  !  I  recognize 
him  as  the  same  man  I  .  .  . 

2 


i8  FOUR  DAYS 

Before  me  lies  a  man  whom  I  have  killed.  Why  did  I 
kill  him  ?  He  lies  there  dead  and  blood-stained.  Why 
did  Fate  bring  him  here  ?  Who  is  he  ?  Perhaps  he  has 
...  as  I  have  ...  an  old  mother.  She  will  sit  long  and  alone 
in  the  evenings  at  the  door  of  her  miserable  hut,  gazing 
towards  the  north,  for  her  darling  son,  her  protector  and 
breadwinner.  And  I  ?  I  also — would  that  I  could 
change  places  with  him.  He  is  happy.  He  hears  nothing, 
feels  nothing,  no  pain  from  wounds,  no  awful  sickness, 
no  thirst  .  .  .  the  bayonet  went  straight  through  his  heart. 
There  is  a  big  black  hole  in  his  uniform  with  blood  around 
it.     I  did  that  ! 

I  did  not  want  to  do  it.  I  wished  no  one  haim  when  I 
volunteered.  It  somehow  never  entered  my  mind  that 
I  should  have  to  kill  people.  I  only  thought  of  how  I 
would  expose  my  own  breast  to  the  bullets.  I  came  .  .  . 
and  now  .  .  .  fool !  fool ! 

And  this  unhappy  fellah  (he  was  in  Egyptian 
uniform) — he  is  even  less  to  blame  than  I.  First  of  all 
they  packed  him  with  others  like  herrings  in  a  barrel  on 
board  a  steamer  and  brought  him  to  Constantinople. 
He  had  never  heard  of  Russia  or  Bulgaria.  They  ordered 
him  to  go,  and  he  came.  Had  he  refused  they  would  have 
beaten  him  with  sticks,  or  perhaps  some  Pascha  would 
have  put  a  bullet  into  him.  He  came  here  by  long  and 
difficult  marches  from  Stamboul  to  Rustchuk.  We 
attacked  and  he  defended  himself,  but  seeing  that  we 
terrible  people  cared  not  for  his  patent  English  rifle,  but 
ever  leapt  forward,  he  became  terror-stricken,  and  when 
he  wanted  to  get  away,  someone,  a  little  man  whom  he 
could  have  killed  with  one  blow  of  his  big  black  fist, 
jumped  forward  and  plunged  a  bayonet  into  his  heart. 

Why  is  he  to  blame  ? 

And  why  am  I  to  blame,  even  though  I  did  kill  him  ? 
How  am  I  to  blame  ?  Why  is  this  thirst  torturing  me  ? 
Thirst !  Who  knows  what  this  word  means  !  Even 
when  we  came  through  Roumania,  making  forced  marches 


FOUR  DAYS  19 

of  fifty  versts  in  the  terrific  heat,  even  then  I  did  not 
feel  what  I  feel  now.  Oh,  if  only  somebody  would  come 
along  ! 

God  !  Yes — there  must  be  something  inside  that 
huge  water-bottle  of  his.  But  I  have  to  get  to  it.  What 
will  it  cost  me  ?     Never  mind,  I  will  get  there. 

I  crawl,  dragging  my  legs  behind  me.  My  arms  have 
grown  so  weak  that  they  can  scarcely  help  me.  It  is  only 
a  few  feet,  but  for  me  it  is  more  .  .  .  not  more,  but  worse 
than  tens  of  versts.  Nevertheless,  I  must  crawl  there. 
My  throat  is  burning — burning  like  fire.  Yes,  no  doubt 
without  water  you  will  die  sooner,  but  still  perhaps  .  .  . 

And  I  crawl.  My  legs  seem  chained  to  the  ground  and 
every  movement  causes  insufferable  pain.  I  yell,  yell, 
but  all  the  same  go  on  crawling.  At  last !  Yes,  there 
is  water  in  the  flask,  and  what  a  lot  !  More  than  half 
full.     It  will  last  me  a  long  time  .  .  .  until  I  die  ! 

You  are  saving  my  life,  my  victim  ! 

I  commenced  to  unfasten  the  water-bottle,  leaning  as  I 
did  so  on  one  elbow,  when,  suddenly  losing  my  balance, 
I  fell  face  forward  on  to  the  body  of  my  deliverer.  Al- 
ready it  was  becoming  unpleasant. 

***** 

I  have  drunk.  The  water  was  warm,  but  still  unspoilt. 
Moreover,  there  is  plenty.  I  shall  live  several  days  more. 
I  remember  having  read  in  a  book  that  a  man  can  live 
without  food  for  more  than  a  week  if  only  he  has  water, 
and  in  the  same  book  I  read  an  account  of  a  man  who 
committed  suicide  by  starvation,  but  lived  for  ages  before 
he  died  because  he  drank  water. 

But  what  if  I  do  live  another  five  or  six  days  ?  What 
will  come  of  it  ?  Our  men  have  gone.  The  Bulgarians 
have  dispersed.  There  is  no  road  near.  I  have  to  die, 
only  instead  of  three  days'  agony  I  have  given  myself 
a  week.  Would  it  not  be  better  to  finish  it  now  ?  Near 
my  neighbour  lies  his  rifle.  I  need  only  stretch  out  my 
hand — then  a  flash  and  the  end.    There  are  cartridges 


20  FOUR  DAYS 

lying  there.  He  had  no  time  to  use  them  all.  Shall  I 
end  it,  then  ?  ...  or  wait  ?  Which  ?  Deliverance  ? 
death  ?  Wait  until  the  Turks  come  and  commence  to 
tear  the  skin  from  my  wounded  legs  ?  Better  to  finish 
it  myself.  No,  there  is  no  need  to  lose  heart ;  I  will  struggle 
to  the  end,  to  the  very  last.  If  they  find  me  I  am  saved. 
Perhaps  the  bones  are  not  touched,  they  will  cure  me. 
I  shall  see  home — mother — and  Masha.  ...  Oh  merciful 
God  !  grant  that  they  may  never  know  the  whole  truth  ! 
Let  them  believe  I  was  killed  outright.  What  if  they 
find  out  that  I  suffered  for  two,  three,  four  days  ! 

My  head  is  spinning  round,  my  journey  to  my  neigh- 
bour has  completely  exhausted  me.  And  this  awful 
smell.  How  black  he  has  become  !  What  will  he  be 
like  to-morrow  or  the  day  after  ?  I  am  lying  here  now 
only  because  I  have  no  strength  left  to  drag  myself  away. 
I  will  rest  a  little  and  then  crawl  back  to  the  old  place  ; 
the  wind,  too,  is  blowing  from  there,  and  will  carry  this 
smell  away  from  me. 

I  am  lying  absolutely  worn  out.  The  sun  is  burning  my 
face  and  hands.  There  is  no  shelter.  If  only  night  (the 
second,  I  suppose)  would  come  more  quickly ! 

My  thoughts  are  getting  confused,  and  I  am  losing 
consciousness. 

***** 

I  must  have  had  a  long  sleep,  because  when  I  awoke 
it  was  already  night.  All  is  as  before,  my  wounds  ache 
as  before,  and  he  is  lying  there  as  before,  just  as  large  and 
motionless  as  before. 

I  cannot  help  thinking  of  him.  Surely  it  was  not  only 
that  he  should  cease  to  live  that  I  gave  up  all — that  I  have 
starved,  have  been  frozen  by  the  cold,  tormented  by 
the  heat,  and  finally  am  lying  here  in  this  agony  ?  Have 
I  done  anything  of  any  use  to  my  country  except  this 
murder  ? 

Murder  !  murderer  ! — Who  ?     I  ! 

When  I  was  fascinated  by  the  idea  of  going  to  the  war. 


FOUR  DAYS  ^i 

mother  and  Masha  did  not  try  to  dissuade  me,  although 
they  both  cried  bitterly.  Blinded  by  the  idea,  I  did  not 
see  those  tears.  I  did  not  understand  (now  I  do)  what  I 
was  causing  to  those  near  me.  But  why  think  of  it  ?  It 
will  not  recall  the  past.  And  in  what  a  strange  light  my 
action  appeared  to  many  of  my  friends — "  Well,  madman  ! 
interfering  without  knowing  why  !"  How  could  they 
say  this  ?  How  can  they  reconcile  such  words  with  their 
ideas  of  heroism,  patriotism,  etc.  ?  Surely  in  their  eyes 
I  represented  all  those  virtues  ?  And  yet  I  am  a  *'  mad- 
man and  monster  "  ! 

And  so  I  go  to  Kishineff.  There  they  load  me  up  with 
a  knapsack  and  all  sorts  of  military  paraphernalia.  And 
I  go  with  thousands,  of  whom  some,  like  myself,  are  going 
voluntarily.  The  remainder  would  stay  at  home  if 
allowed.  However,  they  too,  like  us,  will  march  thou- 
sands of  versts  and  will  fight  also  like  us,  or  even 
better.  They  will  do  their  duty  notwithstanding  that,  if 
allowed,  they  would  immediately  give  it  up  and  go  home. 

A  chilling  early  morning  breeze  has  arisen.  The  bushes 
are  moving,  and  a  bird  is  sleepily  fluttering  its  wings. 
The  stars  have  faded  away.  The  black-blue  of  the  heavens 
has  taken  a  greyish  hue,  and  is  covered  with  soft,  feathery 
clouds.  A  raw  half-mist  is  rising  from  the  ground.  The 
third  day  has  arrived  of  my — what  can  I  call  it  ?  Life  ? 
Agony  ?  The  third.  .  .  .  How  many  still  remain  ?  In 
any  case  not  many.  I  have  become  very  weak,  and 
apparently  cannot  even  get  away  from  my  neighbour. 
Before  long  I  shall  be  like  him,  and  then  we  will  not  be  so 
unpleasing  to  each  other. 

I  must  have  a  drink.     I  will  drink  three  times  a  day  : 
in  the  morning,  at  midday,  and  in  the  evening. 
*  *  ^  *  * 

The  sun  has  risen.  His  huge  disc,  crimson  as  blood,  is 
intersected  by  the  black  branches  of  the  bushes.  It  looks 
as  if  it  will  be  hot  to-day.  My  neighbour  !  what  will  you 
look  like  after  this  day  is  over  ?     Even  now^  you  are 


22  FOUR  DAYS 

awful.  Yes,  he  is  awful.  His  hair  has  commenced  to 
fall  out.  His  skin,  originally  black,  has  become  a  greyish- 
yellow.  His  swollen  face  has  become  so  tightly  stretched 
that  the  skin  has  burst  behind  one  ear.  Large  blisters 
like  bladders  have  pushed  their  way  out  between  the 
buttons  which  fasten  the  leggings  around  his  swollen  legs. 
And  he  himself  looks  a  veritable  mountain.  What  will 
the  sun  do  to  him  to-day  ? 

To  lie  so  near  is  unbearable.  I  must  crawl  away  from 
him  at  all  costs.  But  can  I  ?  I  can  still  raise  my  arm, 
open  the  water-bottle,  and  drink,  but  to  move  my  own 
heavy  helpless  body  ?  Nevertheless,  I  will  move  even 
if  a  little  way  only,  if  only  half  a  pace  an  hour. 

I  have  spent  the  whole  morning  moving.  The  pain  was 
awful,  but  what  is  that  to  me  now  ?  I  no  longer  re- 
member, I  cannot  imagine  what  it  feels  like  to  be  sound 
and  well.  I  am  accustomed  to  pain  now.  I  have  suc- 
ceeded this  morning  in  crawling  back  to  my  old  place. 
But  I  have  not  enjoyed  the  fresh  air  for  long, — that  is, 
if  there  can  be  fresh  air  within  six  paces  of  a  putrefying 
corpse.  The  wind  has  changed.  It  is  so  appalling  that 
I  am  sick.  The  convulsions  of  an  empty  stomach  cause 
me  new  tortures,  and  my  whole  inside  seems  to  become 
twisted.  But  the  awful  poisoned  air  still  fans  me.  In 
my  despair  I  burst  out  crying. 

***** 

Absolutely  worn  out,  I  lie  in  a  semi-stupor.  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly— Is  this  the  fantasy  of  a  disordered  imagination  ?  It 
seems  to  me  that . . .  no  . . .  yes  it  is  . . .  voices  !  The  sound 
of  horses'  hoofs  and  human  voices.  I  almost  cried  out, 
but  just  stopped  myself.  And  what  if  they  are  Turks  ? 
What  then  ?  Then  to  my  present  tortures  will  be  added 
others  far  more  awful,  even  to  read  of  which  in  the  news- 
papers makes  one's  hair  stand  on  end.  They  will  flay  me 
alive  and  roast  my  wounded  legs.  It  will  be  well  if  they 
do  no  more  than  this,  for  they  have  great  inventive 
powers.     Is  it  really  better  to  end  life  in  their  hands  than 


FOUR  DAYS  23 

to  die  here  ?     But  if  they  are  some  of  ours  ?     You  cursed 
bushes  !     Why  have  you  surrounded  me  with  so  thick 
a  hedge  ?     I  can  see  nothing  through  them.     In  one  place 
only  is  there  an  opening  like  a  little  window  between  the 
branches  which  gives  me  a  view  away  on  to  the  open 
ground.     Yes,  there  is  the  small  stream  from  which  we 
drank  before  the  fight.     And  there  is  the  huge  block  of 
sandstone  like  a  little  bridge  across  the  stream.     They 
are  sure  to  come  across  it.     The  voices  die  away,  I  cannot 
hear  what  language  they  are  speaking,  even  my  hearing 
has  become  weak.     My  God  !  if  they  are  ours — I  will  call 
to  them.     They  should  hear  me  even  from  there.     It  is 
better  than  risking  falling  into  the  clutches  of  Bashi- 
Bazouks.     Why  are  they  so  long  in  coming  ?     In  the 
torments  of  expectancy  I  do  not  even  notice  the  dreadful 
air,  although  it  has  in  no  way  improved. 

Then  suddenly  Cossacks  appear  crossing  the  stream. 
Blue  uniforms,  red-striped  trousers,  lances  all.  A  half 
sotnia  of  them,  and  in  front,  on  a  magnificent  horse, 
is  a  black-bearded  officer.  As  soon  as  they  are  across 
the  stream  he  turns  in  his  saddle  and  gives  the  order, 
**  Tro — t,  march  !" 

"  Stop  !  stop  !  For  God's  sake  !  Help  !  help  '.—Com- 
rades !"  I  cry,  but  the  trotting  horses,  rattling  scabbards, 
and  loud  talldng  of  the  Cossacks  drown  my  hoarse  cries — 
and  they  do  not  hear  me  ! 

Oh,  curses  on  it !  Exhausted,  I  fall  face  forward  on  to 
the  ground,  and  cry  in  convulsive  sobs.  The  water,  my 
salvation  and  my  insurance  against  death,  is  pouring  out 
from  the  flask,  which  I  have  overturned,  but  it  is  only 
when  barely  half  a  glassful  remains  and  the  rest  is  soaking 
into  the  dry  thirsty  soil  that  I  notice  that  in  my  fall  I 
had  knocked  over  the  water-bottle. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  the  awfulness  of  that  moment,  the 
numbness  which  came  over  me  ?  I  lay  motionless  with 
half -closed  eyes.  The  wind  kept  constantly  changing, 
and  blew  alternately  fresh  and  clean  or  almost  over- 


24  FOUR  DAYS 

powered  me.  My  neighbour  had  become  too  dreadful 
for  words.  Once  when  I  opened  my  eyes  to  snatch  a 
glance  at  him  I  was  appalled.  There  was  no  longer  a 
face.  It  had  fallen  away  from  the  bone.  The  horrible 
grinning  skull  with  its  everlasting  smile  appeared  too 
revolting,  although  (as  a  medical  student)  I  have  fre- 
quently handled  them,  but  this  corpse  in  uniform  with  its 
bright  buttons  made  me  shudder.  "  And  this  is  war  !" 
I  reflected.     "  This  corpse  is  its  symbol  !" 

The  sun  is  scorching  and  baking  me  as  usual.  My 
hands  and  face  have  long  been  all  blisters.  I  have  drunk 
all  the  water  that  was  left.  My  thirst  was  so  maddening 
that  I  decided  to  take  just  a  sip,  but  swallowed  all  that 
was  left  at  one  gulp.  Oh,  why  did  I  not  call  to  the 
Cossacks  when  they  were  close  to  me  ?  Even  had  they 
been  Turks  it  would  have  been  better.  They  would  have 
tortured  me  for  perhaps  two  or  even  three  hours,  but  now 
I  do  not  know  how  long  I  shall  have  to  writhe  and  suffer 
here.  Mother,  darling  mother,  you  would  tear  out  your 
grey  hair,  you  would  beat  your  head  against  a  wall  and 
curse  the  day  you  bore  me  .  .  .  you  would  curse  the  world 
which  has  invented  war  for  the  torturing  of  men  did 
you  but  know.  Good-bye,  mother  dearest,  and  fare- 
well, my  sweetheart,  Masha,  my  love.  How,  how 
bitter  ! 

Again  I  see  that  Httle  dog.  The  dvornik  did  not 
pity  it,  but  knocked  its  head  against  the  wall,  and  threw 
it  (though  still  living)  into  a  refuse  pit  in  the  courtyard 
of  the  house  near  by,  where  it  lingered  for  a  day.  But  I . . . 
I  am  more  unfortunate  because  I  have  already  suffered 
three  days.  To-morrow  will  be  the  fourth  day — then 
there  will  be  a  fifth,  sixth. 

Death,  where  art  thou  ?     Come  !     Take  me  ! 

But  death  does  not  come  and  does  not  take  me.  And 
I  lie  here  under  this  awful  sun,  with  not  a  drop  of  water 
to  cool  my  burning  throat  and  a  corpse  which  is  poisoning 
me.     It  has  become  quite  decomposed,  and  is  a  seething 


FOUR  DAYS  25 

mass.     When  nothing  but  the  bones  and  uniform  are  left 
it  will  be  my  turn.     I  shall  be  like  that. 

The  day  passes  and  the  night  passes.  No  change. 
Another  morn  is  arriving  just  the  same,  and  yet  another 
day  will  pass. 

The  rustling  bushes  seem  to  be  murmuring,  and  whisper, 
"  You  will  die  !  You  will  die  !  You  will  die  !"  '*  You 
will  not  see  !  You  will  not  see  !  You  will  not  see  !" 
answer  the  bushes  from  the  other  side. 

''No,  you  will  not  see  them,"  says  a  loud  voice  near 
me.  I  give  a  shudder  and  at  once  come  to  myself.  From 
out  of  the  bushes  the  kindly  blue  eyes  of  Yakoff,  our 
corporal,  are  looking  at  me. 

"  Spades  here  !"  he  cries.  "  Here  are  two  more  of 
theirs." 

No  spades  are  wanted,  no  need  to  bury  me.  I  am  alive 
— I  try  to  cry  out,  but  only  a  feeble  groan  comes  from  my 
parched  lips. 

"  Merciful  God  !  Alive  !  It  is  our  Ivanoff ;  he  is 
alive  !  Come  here,  mates,  our  barin  is  alive  !  Call  the 
doctor  !"  In  a  few  moments  they  are  rinsing  my  mouth 
with  water,  brandy  and  something.  Then  everything 
disappears. 

The  stretcher-bearers  move  with  a  gentle  and  measured 
swing  which  lulls  me  to  rest.  I  awake,  then  lapse  again 
into  oblivion.  My  bandaged  wounds  are  not  hurting,  and 
an  inexpressible  joyous  feeling  of  comfort  pervades  my 
whole  being. 

"...  Ha — alt  !  Low^ — er  !"  and  the  "  relief  "  take  the 
place  of  their  comrades  in  carrying  the  stretcher. 

The  N.C.O.  in  charge  is  Peter  Ivanovich,  a  corporal  of 
our  company,  and  a  tall,  lanky,  but  very  good  fellow. 
He  is  so  tall  that  looking  towards  him  I  gradually  descry 
his  head  and  shoulders  and  his  long  straggly  beard, 
although  four  stalwart  men  are  carrying  the  stretcher 
shoulder  high. 

"  Peter  Ivanovich,"  I  whisper. 


26  FOUR  DAYS 

"  What  is  it,  old  friend  ?"  and  Peter  Ivanovich  bends 
over  me. 

"  Peter  Ivanovich,  what  did  the  doctor  say  to  you  ? 
Shall  I  die  soon  ?" 

*'  But,  Ivanoff,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  Of 
course  you  will  not  die  ;  no  bones  have  been  broken.  My 
word,  but  you  are  lucky.  Not  a  bone  or  an  artery  touched 
But  how  have  you  lived  these  three  and  a  half  days  ? 
What  had  you  to  eat  ?" 

''  Nothing.'' 

"  And  to  drink  ?" 

*'  I  took  the  Turk's  water-bottle.  Peter  Ivanovich,  I 
cannot  talk  now — afterwards." 

"  All  right,  chum.     Try  and  sleep  now." 

Again  sleep — oblivion.  .  .  . 

When  I  awake  again  it  is  to  find  myself  in  the 
Divisional  Hospital  tent.  Around  me  stand  nurses  and 
doctors,  one  of  whom  I  recognize  as  a  well-known  St. 
Petersburg  professor.  He  is  leaning  over  me,  his  hands 
are  bathed  in  blood.  He  does  not  examine  my  legs  long, 
and  turning  towards  me,  he  says  :  ''  God  has  been  kind  to 
you,  young  man.  You  will  live.  We  have  had  to  take 
one  leg  from  you,  but .  .  .  well,  that  is  nothing.  Can  you 
talk  ?"  I  am  able  to  talk,  and  I  tell  him  all  that  I  have 
written  here. 


Ill 

AN  INCIDENT 


How  it  has  come  about  that  I,  who  for  almost  two  years 
have  never  thought  seriously  about  anything,  have  sud- 
denly commenced  to  reflect — I  cannot  understand.  It 
cannot  be  that  man  who  has  set  me  thinking,  because  I  so 
often  meet  with  men  of  his  type  that  I  am  accustomed 
to  their  sermonizing. 

Yes,  they  almost  all,  with  the  exception  of  the  abso- 
lutely hardened  or  really  clever  ones,  invariably  talk 
about  matters  which  are  of  no  use  to  them  or  even  me. 
First  they  ask  my  name  and  my  age  ;  then  in  the  majority 
of  cases,  with  an  air  of  concern,  they  begin  to  ask,  "  Is 
it  impossible  for  you  to  give  up  such  a  life  ?"  At  first 
this  kind  of  thing  used  to  upset  me,  but  now  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  it.     One  becomes  accustomed  to  a  lot. 

However,  for  the  last  fortnight,  whenever  I  am  quite 
alone  and  am  not  feeling  gay — that  is,  not  drunk  (because 
can  I  really  be  merry  except  when  drunk  ?) — I  begin  to 
think.  And,  however  much  I  do  not  wish  to  think,  I 
cannot  help  it.  I  cannot  get  away  from  depressing 
thoughts.  There  is  only  one  way  of  forgetting — to  go 
out  somewhere  where  there  are  plenty  of  people,  where 
there  is  drunkenness  and  indecency.  Then  I  too  begin 
to  drink  and  misbehave.  My  brain  gets  muddled,  and 
I  remember  nothing.  .  .  .  Then  it  is — easier.  But  why 
is  it  that  this  never  happened  before  ? — not  from  the  very 

27 


28  AN  INCIDENT 

first  day  I  bid  good-bye  to  everything  ?  For  more  than 
two  years  I  have  hved  here  in  this  beastly  room,  ahvays 
spending  the  time  in  the  same  way,  frequenting  the  various 
restaurants  and  dancing-saloons,  and  all  the  time,  if  it 
has  not  really  been  gay,  I  at  least  have  not  thought  so. 
But  now — it  is  quite,  quite  different. 

How  dull  and  stupid  it  all  is  !  It  is  not  because  I  go 
nowhere  ;  I  go  nowhere  simply  because  I  don't  want  to. 
I  entangled  myself  in  this  life,  I  know  my  own  road.  In 
a  copy  of  an  illustrated  paper  which  one  of  my  "  friends  " 
brings  me  whenever  there  is  something  *'  spicy  "  in  it,  I 
once  saw  a  picture.  In  the  centre  there  was  a  pretty 
little  girl  with  a  doll,  and  around  her  there  were  two  rows 
of  figures.  On  the  one  side  above  they  went  from  the 
child  to  the  little  school-girl,  then  the  modest  young 
girl,  afterwards  the  mother  of  a  family,  and  finally  an 
honoured,  respected  old  woman.  On  the  other  side, 
below — was  a  shop-girl  carrying  a  box,  then  me,  me,  and 
again  me.  First  me — like  I  am  now,  second  me — sweep- 
ing the  streets  with  a  broom,  and  third — the  same — as 
an  absolutely  repulsive,  loathsome  old  hag.  However, 
I  shall  not  let  myself  get  to  that  stage.  Another  two  or 
three  years,  if  I  can  stand  this  life  as  long,  and  then  into 
the  canal.     I  can  do  this,  I  am  not  afraid. 

But  what  a  strange  chap  the  man  must  be  who  drew 
this  picture !  Why  does  he  take  it  for  granted  that  a 
school-girl  becomes  a  modest  young  lady,  an  honoured 
mother  and  grandmother  ?  And  I  ?  I  too  can  show 
off  my  French  and  German  in  the  street  !  And  I  don't 
think  I  have  forgotten  how  to  paint  or  draw  flowers,  and 
I  remember  "  Calipso  ne  pouvait  se  consoler  du  departe 
d'Ulysse."  I  remember  Pushkin  and  Lermontoff,  and 
all — all.  And  the  examinations  and  that  momentous, 
awful  time  when  I  became  a  fool,  a  silly  fool,  and  listened 
to  all  the  passionate,  silly  speeches  of  that  conceited  fop, 
and  how  stupidly  I  enjoyed  it,  and  all  the  lies  and  filth 
in  the  "  best  society  "  from  which  I  came  into  this,  where 


AN  INCIDENT  29 

I  now  make  an  idiot  of  myself  with  vodka.  .  .  .  Yes, 
now  I  have  begun  even  to  drink  vodka.  *'  Horreur  !" 
my  cousin,  Olga  Nicolaievna,  would  say. 

Yes,  and  is  it  not  in  reality  **  horreur  '*  ?  But  am  I 
to  blame  in  this  matter  ?  If  I — a  seventeen-year-old  girl, 
who  for  eight  years  had  sat  within  four  walls  and  had 
seen  only  other  girls  like  myself  and  their  different 
mammas — had  not  met  my  "  friend,"  with  his  hair  a  la 
Capoul,  but  some  other  and  good  man — then  it  would  all 
have  been  different. 

But  what  an  absurd  idea  !  Are  there  really  any  good 
people  ?  Have  I  ever  met  any  since  or  before  my 
downfall  ?  Can  I  believe  that  there  are  good  people 
when  of  the  scores  I  know  there  is  not  one  whom  I  could 
not  hate  !  Can  I  believe  that  they  exist  when  amongst 
those  I  meet  are  husbands  of  young  wives,  children 
(almost  children — fourteen  and  fifteen  years  old)  of 
"  good  family  "  !  old  men,  bald,  paralytic,  half  dead  ? 

And  finally,  can  I  help  hating  and  despising  them, 
although  I  am  myself  a  despicable  and  despised  being, 
when  amongst  them  are  such  persons  as  a  certain  young 
German  with  a  monogram  tattooed  on  his  arm  above 
the  elbow  ?  He  explained  to  me  that  it  was  the  initials 
of  his  fiancee.  "  Jetzt  aber  bist  du  meine  liebe,  aller- 
liebste  Liebchen,"  said  he,  looking  at  me  with  oily  eyes, 
and  then  read  me  verses  from  Heine,  and  unctuously 
explained  that  Heine  was  a  great  German  poet,  but  that 
they  had  even  greater  poets  in  Germany — Goethe  and 
Schiller — and  that  only  such  a  great  and  gifted  nation 
like  the  Germans  could  produce  such  poets. 

How  I  longed  to  scratch  his  disgusting  greasy  face,  with 
its  white  eyebrows  and  lashes !  But  instead  I  gulped 
down  the  glass  of  port  wine  he  had  poured  out  for  me 
and  forgot  all. 

*  *  *  -H-  * 

Why  should  I  think  of  the  future  when  I  know  it  so 
well  ?     Why  think  of  the  past  when  there  was  nothing 


30  AN  INCIDENT 

in  it  which  could  replace  my  present  life  ?  Yes,  it  is  true. 
If  I  were  asked  to-day  to  return  to  those  luxurious  sur- 
roundings, to  mingle  amongst  people  with  their  beauti- 
fully dressed  hair  and  elegant  phrases,  I  would  not !  I 
should  stay  and  die  at  my  post.  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  have  my  post  !  I,  too,  am  wanted,  am  neces- 
sary. Not  long  ago  a  young  man  came  to  me  who  talked 
everlastingly,  and  recited  me  a  whole  page  he  had  learnt 
by  heart  out  of  some  book,  **  That  is  what  our  philo- 
sopher— a  Russian  philosopher — says,"  he  explained.  The 
philosopher  said  something  very  obscure  but  flattering 
for  me  to  the  effect  that  we  are  "  the  safety  valves  of 
public  passions."  .  .  .  Disgusting  words  !  The  philo- 
sopher himself  is  no  doubt  a  beast,  but  worst  of  all  this 
boy  who  repeated  it. 

However,  not  long  ago,  this  same  idea  came  into  my 
mind.  I  was  up  before  a  magistrate,  who  fined  me  fifteen 
roubles  for  obscenity  in  a  public  place. 

As  he  read  his  decision  whilst  all  stood,  I  thought  to 
myself :  "  Why  do  all  this  public  look  at  me  wdth  such 
contempt  ?  Granted  that  I  carry  on  an  unclean,  loath- 
some trade,  a  most  contemptible  calling — still,  it  is  a 
calling  !  This  judge  also  has  a  calling.  And  I  think 
that  we  both  ..." 

I  don't  think  of  anything,  I  am  conscious  only  that  I 
drink,  that  I  remember  nothing,  and  get  muddled. 
Everything  gets  mixed  up  in  my  head — the  disgusting 
saloon  where  I  shall  dance  shamelessly  to-night  and  this 
horrible  room  in  which  I  can  only  live  when  I  am  drunk. 
My  temples  are  throbbing,  there  is  a  ringing  in  my  ears, 
everything  is  swimming  in  my  head,  and  I  am  being 
carried  away.  I  want  to  stop,  to  take  hold  of  something, 
if  only  a  straw,  but  there  is  nothing,  not  even  a  straw. 

I  he  !     There  is  one  !     And  not  a  straw,  but  something 
perhaps  more  hopeful.     But  I  have  sunk  so  low  that  I 
do  not  wish  to  stretch  out  my  hand  to  seize  this  support. 
4t  «  ♦  «  ♦ 


AN  INCIDENT  31 

It  happened,  I  think,  about  the  end  of  August.  I  re- 
member it  was  a  glorious  autumn  evening.  I  was  strolHng 
in  the  Summer  Garden,  and  there  became  acquainted 
with  this  "  support."  He  did  not  appear  to  be  anything 
extraordinary,  excepting  perhaps  a  certain  good-natured 
talkativeness.  He  told  me  about  almost  all  his  affairs 
and  friends.  He  was  twenty-five,  and  his  name  was 
Ivan  Ivanovich.  As  for  the  man  himself,  he  was  neither 
bad  nor  good.  He  chatted  away  with  me  as  if  I  had  been 
an  old  acquaintance,  told  me  stories  of  his  Chief,  and 
pointed  out  to  me  any  of  those  in  his  Department  who 
happened  to  be  in  sight. 

He  left  me,  and  I  forgot  all  about  him.  About  a  month 
afterwards,  however,  he  reappeared.  He  had  grown 
thinner,  and  was  moody  and  depressed.  When  he  came 
in  I  was  even  a  little  frightened  at  the  strange,  forbidding- 
looking  face. 

**  You  don't  remember  me  ?" 

At  that  moment  I  remembered  him,  and  said  so. 

He  blushed. 

**  I  thought  perhaps  you  did  not  remember  me,  because 
you  see  so  many  ..." 

The  conversation  stopped  abruptly.  We  sat  on  the 
sofa,  I  in  one  corner  and  he  in  the  other,  as  if  he  had 
come  for  the  first  time  to  pay  a  call,  sitting  bolt  upright, 
holding  his  tall  hat  in  his  hand.  We  sat  like  this  for  quite 
a  time.     Then  he  got  up  and  bowed. 

"  Good-bye,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna,"  he  said  with  a 
sigh. 

*'  How  did  you  find  out  my  name  ?"  I  exclaimed, 
flaring  up.  The  name  I  went  under  was  not  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna,  but  Evgenia. 

I  shouted  at  Ivan  Ivanovich  so  angrily  that  he  became 
quite  frightened. 

"  But  I  didn't  mean  any  harm,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna 

I  have  never  wished  or  done  harm  to  anyone.  .  .  .  But 
I  know  Peter  Vassilovich  of  the  police,  who  told  me  aU 


32  AN  INCIDENT 

about  you.  I  meant  to  call  you  Evgenia,  but  my  tongue 
slipped,  and  I  called  you  by  your  real  name." 

"  And  tell  me  why  you  have  come  here  ?" 

He  said  nothing,  and  looked  sorrowfully  into  my  eyes. 

"  Why  ?"  I  repeated,  getting  more  and  more  angry. 
"  What  interest  do  I  possess  for  you  ?  No,  better  not 
to  come  here.  I  will  not  start  an  acquaintanceship  with 
you  because  I  have  no  acquaintances.  I  know  why 
you  came  !  The  policeman's  story  interested  you.  You 
thought — here  is  a  rarity,  an  educated  lady  who  has 
fallen  into  this  kind  of  life.  .  .  .  You  had  visions  of 
rescuing  me  ?  Clear  out  !  I  want  nothing  !  Better  to 
leave  me  to  perish  alone  than  ..." 

I  chanced  to  glance  at  his  face — and  stopped.  I  saw- 
that  every  word  was  striking  him  like  a  blow.  He  said 
nothing,  but  his  look  alone  made  me  stop. 

"  Good-bye,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna,"  he  said.  "  I  am  very 
sorry  that  I  have  hurt  you  and  myself  too.     Good-bye." 

He  put  out  his  hand  (I  could  not  but  take  it),  and 
slowly  went  out  of  the  room.  I  heard  him  go  do\^'^l  the 
staircase,  and  saw  through  the  window  how,  with  bowed 
head,  he  went  across  the  courtyard  with  the  same  slow 
and  tottering  gait.  At  the  gate  of  the  yard  he  turned 
round,  glanced  up  at  my  window,  and  disappeared. 

And  it  is  this  man  who  can  be  my  "  support."  I 
have  only  to  make  a  sign,  and  I  can  become  a  lawful  wife. 
The  lawful  wife  of  a  poor  but  well-born  man,  and  can 
even  become  a  poor  but  well-born  mother,  if  only  the 
Lord  in  His  anger  will  yet  send  me  a  child. 


II 

To-day  Evsei  Evsevich  spoke  to  me  : 

**  You  will  listen  to  me,  Ivan  Ivanovich — what  I,  an 
old  man,  am  going  to  say  to  you.  You,  my  dear  boy, 
have  begun  to  behave  stupidly.  Take  care  that  it  does 
not  reach  the  ears  of  the  Chief  1" 


AN  INCIDENT  33 

He  went  on  talking  for  a  long  time  (trying  to  speak  of 
the  very  essence  of  the  matter  by  roundabout  means) 
about  the  service,  the  respect  due  to  rank,  of  our  Chief, 
about  myself,  and  finally  began  to  talk  about  my  misfor- 
tune. We  were  sitting  in  a  traktir,  where  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna  and  her  friends  often  came. 

Evsei  Evsevich  had  long  ago  noticed,  and  had  long 
ago  drawn  from  me  a  number  of  details.  I  could  not  hold 
my  stupid  tongue,  and  let  it  all  out,  and  even  almost  cried. 

Evsei  Evsevich  got  angry. 

*'  Bah  !  you  old  woman,  you  tender-hearted  old  woman  ! 
A  young  man,  a  good  official,  you  have  started  all  this 
nonsense  for  such  rubbish !  Have  done  with  her ! 
What  have  you  to  do  with  her  ?  It  would  be  all  right 
if  she  were  a  respectable,  decent  girl ;  but  for,  if  I  may 
say  so  .  .  ." 

Evsei  Evsevich  even  spat. 

After  this  incident  he  often  returned  to  the  subject 
(Evsei  Evsevich  was  sincerely  grieved  about  and  for  me), 
but  he  no  longer  stormed  at  me,  because  he  saw  that  it 
annoyed  me.  At  the  same  time,  he  could  not  contain 
himself  for  long,  and  although  he  would  try  at  first  to 
talk  in  a  roundabout  way  on  the  subject,  eventually  he 
v/ould  come  to  the  one  conclusion  that  it  was  necessary 
to  have  done  with  it,  etc. 

And  I,  strictly  speaking,  agree  with  what  he  says  every 
day  to  me.  How  many  times  have  I  also  thought  that 
it  was  necessary  to  have  done  with  it.  Yes,  how  many 
times  !  And  how  many  times  after  such  thoughts  have 
I  gone  out  of  the  house,  and  my  feet  have  borne  me  to 
that  street.  .  .  .  And  here  she  comes,  berouged,  with 
pencilled  eyebrows,  in  a  velvet  shuba,  and  a  dainty 
sealskin  cap,  straight  towards  me,  and  I  cross  to  the 
other  side,  so  that  she  shall  not  notice  that  I  am  follow- 
ing her.  She  goes  up  to  the  corner,  then  turns  back, 
impudently,  brazenly  looking  at  the  passers-by,  and  some- 
times talking  with  them.     I  follow  behind  her  from  the 


34  AN  INCIDENT 

other  side  of  the  street,  trying  not  to  lose  sight  of  her, 
and  hopelessly  I  gaze  at  her  little  figure  until  some  .  .  . 
blackguard  goes  up  to  her  and  speaks.  She  answers  him, 
turns  round,  and  goes  with  him  .  .  .  and  I  after  them. 
If  the  road  were  strewn  with  sharp  nails  it  could  not  be 
more  painful  for  me.  I  go  along  hearing  nothing,  seeing 
nothing,  except  two  figures.  .  .  . 

I  do  not  look  where  I  am  going,  and  go  along  with  my 
eyes  starting  out  of  my  head,  bumping  against  passers-by, 
and  meeting  in  return  with  reproofs,  abuse,  and  pushes. 
Once  I  knocked  a  child  over.  ... 

They  turn  to  the  right,  then  to  the  left,  they  go  through 
the  little  door  into  the  yard.  She  first,  then  he.  Almost 
always  out  of  some  strange  politeness  he  gives  her  the 
way.  Then  I  follow.  Opposite  her  two  windows,  so 
familiar  to  me,  there  stands  a  shed  with  a  hayloft.  There 
is  a  small  flight  of  iron  steps  leading  up  to  the  hayloft, 
ending  v/ith  a  small  landing  devoid  of  any  railing.  I  sit 
down  on  this  landing  and  gaze  at  the  lowered  white 
blinds.  .  .  . 

To-day  I  was  at  my  awful  post,  although  there  was  a 
sharp  frost.  I  became  thoroughly  benumbed.  My  feet 
lost  all  feeling,  but  still  I  stood  there.  Steam  rose  from 
my  face,  my  moustaches  and  beard  became  frozen,  my 
feet  began  to  freeze.  People  kept  passing  through  the 
courtyard,  but  did  not  notice  me,  and,  talking  loudly, 
used  to  pass  by  me.  From  the  street  came  sounds  of 
drunken  singing  (it  was  a  gay  street),  interchange  of 
abuse,  the  noise  of  the  scrapers  on  the  pavement  as  the 
dvorniks  cleared  it  of  snow.  All  these  sounds  rang 
in  my  ears,  but  I  paid  no  attention  to  them  or  to  the 
frost,  which  was  biting  my  face  and  my  benumbed  legs. 
All  this,  the  sounds,  my  feet,  and  the  frost,  seemed  to  be 
all  far,  far  aw^ay  from  me.  My  legs  were  aching  violently, 
but  something  inside  me  was  aching  even  more  violently. 
I^have  not  the  courage  to  go  to  her.  Does  she  know  that 
there  is  a  man  who  would  consider  it  happiness  to  sit 


AN  INCIDENT  35 

with  her  in  a  room,  and  only  look  into  her  eyes,  not  even 
touching  her  hands  ?  That  there  is  a  man  who  would 
hurl  himself  into  the  fire  if  it  would  help  her  to  get  out  of 
the  hell  in  which  she  lives,  if  she  wanted  to  get  out  of  it  ? 
But  she  does  not  wish.  .  .  .  And  I,  up  to  now,  do  not 
know  why  she  does  not  wish.  I  cannot  believe  that  she 
is  spoilt  to  the  very  marrow  of  her  bones.  I  cannot 
believe  this  because  I  know  it  is  not  so,  because  I  know 
her,  because  I  love  her,  love  her. 

*  -X-  *  >3f  * 

A  waiter  went  up  to  Ivan  Ivanovich,  who  had  placed 
his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  with  his  face  buried  in  his 
arms,  was  shuddering  from  time  to  time,  and  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

"  Mr.  Nikitin.  You  mustn't  sit  like  this.  ...  In  front 
of  everyone.  .  .  .  The  proprietor  will  make  a  fuss. 
Mr.  Nikitin  !  Please  get  up.  You  must  not  act  like 
this  here." 

Ivan  Ivanovich  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  the 
waiter.  He  was  not  the  least  drunk,  and  the  waiter 
understood  this  as  soon  as  he  saw  his  mournful  face. 

"It  is  nothing,  Simon — nothing.  Give  me  a  bottle 
of  vodka." 

"  What  will  you  order  with  it  ?" 

"  What  ?  A  wineglass.  And  give  me  a  big  bottle. 
Here  you  are,  pay  for  it  all  and  take  a  couple  of 
dvu-grivenniks  for  yourself.  In  an  hour's  time  send  me 
home  in  an  izvoschik.     Do  you  know  where  I  live  ?" 

"  I  know.  .  .  .     Only,  sir,  what  does  it  all  mean  ?" 

He  evidently  could  not  understand.  It  was  the  first 
experience  of  the  kind  in  all  his  long  career. 

"  No,  wait  a  bit ;  better  for  me  to  do  it." 

Ivan  Ivanovich  went  out  into  the  passage,  put  on  his 
coat,  and  going  out  on  to  the  street,  turned  in  at  a  wine- 
vault  in  the  low  window  of  which,  brilliantly  lighted  up 
by  the  gas-light,  were  bottles  Vvdth  various  coloured  labels, 
tastefully  arranged  in  a  layer  of  moss.     A  minute  later 


36  AN  INCIDENT 

he  came  out  carrying  two  bottles,  went  to  his  lodging, 
which  he  had  in  some  furnished  rooms,  and  locked 
himself  in. 

Ill 

I  have  again  forgotten  and  again  I  am  awake.  Three 
weeks  of  incessant  debauchery  !  How  do  I  stand  it  ? 
To-day  my  head,  bones,  every  part  of  my  body  is  aching. 
Remorse,  boredom,  fruitless  and  tormenting  arguing  ! 
If  only  someone  would  come  ! 

*  -Yf  ->!•  4e-  * 

As  if  in  answer  to  my  thought  a  ring  at  the  door 
sounded.  **  Is  Evgenia  at  home  ?"  "At  home ;  come  in, 
please,"  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  cook  reply.  Uneven, 
hurried  steps  resounded  along  the  corridor,  the  door  fiev/ 
open,  and  through  it  appeared  Ivan  Ivanovich. 

He  was  not  at  all  like  the  timid,  bashful  man  who  had 
come  to  see  me  two  months  ago.  His  hat  was  on  the  side 
of  his  head,  he  wore  a  bright-coloured  tie,  and  a  self- 
assured,  insolent  expression.  His  gait  was  staggering, 
and  he  smelt  strongly  of  liquor. 

•3f  *  *  * 

Nadejda  Nicolaievna  jumped  up  from  her  seat. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?"  he  began.  "  I  have  come  to  see 
you." 

And  he  sat  down  on  a  chair  near  the  door,  without 
taking  off  his  hat  or  overcoat.  She  said  nothing  and 
he  said  no  more.  Had  he  not  been  drunk  she  would  have 
found  something  to  say,  but  now  she  lost  her  presence  of 
mind.  Whilst  she  was  thinking  what  to  do,  he  again  spoke. 

"  Nadia  !  See,  I  have  come.  ...  I  have  the  right  !" 
he  suddenly  shouted  out,  and  drew  himself  up  to  his  full 
height.  His  hat  fell  off,  and  his  black  hair  fell  in  disorder 
on  to  his  face,  his  eyes  blazed.  His  whole  appearance 
expressed  such  delirium  that  for  a  moment  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna  was  frightened. 

She  tried  to  speak  tenderly  with  him. 


AN  INCIDENT 


37 


"  Listen,  Ivan  Ivanovich,  I  shall  be  very  pleased  if  you 
will  come  another  time,  only  go  home  now.  You  have 
had  too  much  to  drink.  Be  a  good  fellow  and  go  home. 
Come  and  see  me  when  you  are  well." 

"  She  is  frightened,"  Ivan  Ivanovich  muttered  half  to 
himself,  again  sitting  down  on  the  chair — tamed  !  *'  But 
why  are  you  hunting  me  away  ?"  he  broke  out  again 
fiercely.  "  Why  ?  I  began  to  drink  through  you  ;  I 
used  to  be  sober  !  Why  do  you  draw  me  to  you,  tell 
me?" 

He  wept.  Drunken  tears  stifled  him,  trickled  down 
his  face,  falling  into  his  mouth  contorted  v/ith  sobbing. 
He  could  scarcely  speak. 

"  Another  woman  would  consider  it  a  piece  of  fortune 
to  be  taken  out  of  this  hell.  I  would  slave  for  you  like 
a  bullock.  You  would  live  without  care,  quietly  and 
honourably.  Tell  me,  what  have  I  done  to  merit  your 
hatred  ?" 

Nadejda  Nicolaievna  kept  silent. 

"  Why  are  you  silent  ?"  he  yelled.  "  Speak,  say  some- 
thing ! — anything  you  like,  only  say  something.  I  am 
drunk — that's  true.  ...  I  should  not  have  come  here 
if  I  were  not.  Do  you  know  how  afraid  I  am  of  you 
when  I  am  sober  ?  You  can  do  what  you  like  with  me. 
Tell  me  to  steal— I'll  steal.  Tell  me  to  kill— I'll  kill. 
Do  you  know  this  ?  Of  course  you  knov/  !  You  are 
clever  and  see  everything.  If  you  do  not  know  it  .  .  . 
Nadia,  Nadia,  my  heart's  darling,  pity  me  !" 

And  he  threw  himself  on  to  his  knees  before  her.  But 
she  sat  motionless,  resting  against  the  v/all,  with  her  head 
thrown  back  and  her  hands  behind  her  back.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  some  far-away  point.  Did  she  see  any- 
thing ?  Did  she  hear  anything  ?  W^hat  v/ere  her  feehngs 
at  the  sight  of  this  man  who  had  thrown  himself  at  her 
feet  and  was  imploring  her  love  ?  Pity  ?  Contempt  ? 
She  wanted  to  pity  him,  but  felt  she  could  not.  He  only 
excited  her  aversion.     And  could  he  have  excited  any 


38  AN  INCIDENT 

other  feeling  in  this  pitiful  state  ? — drunk,  dirty,  abjectly 
imploring  ? 

He  had  already  for  some  days  past  given  up  going  to 
his  work.  He  drank  every  day.  Finding  consolation 
in  drink,  he  began  to  follow  the  object  of  his  passion  less, 
and  sat  all  the  time  at  home  drinking  and  trying  to  muster 
up  courage  to  go  to  her  and  tell  her  all.  What  he  would 
say  to  her  he  did  not  himself  know.  "  I  will  tell  her 
everything,  open  my  soul,"  flashed  through  his  fuddled 
head.  At  length  he  made  up  his  mind,  v/ent  and  began 
to  speak.  Even  through  the  mist  of  his  drunkenness  he 
realized  that  he  was  saying  and  doing  things  not  at  all 
calculated  to  inspire  love  towards  him,  but  all  the  same, 
he  went  on  speaking,  feeling  that  with  every  word  he 
was  falling  lower  and  lower,  and  drawing  the  noose  tighter 
and  tighter  around  his  neck. 

He  spoke  long  and  disjointedly.  His  speech  became 
slower  and  slower,  and  finally  his  drunken,  swollen  eyelids 
closed,  and  with  his  head  thrown  back  against  the  chair, 
he  fell  asleep. 

Nadejda  Nicolaievna  remained  in  her  former  pose, 
vacantly  gazing  at  the  ceiling,  drumming  with  her  fingers 
on  the  wall-paper. 

"  Am  I  sorry  for  him  ?  No.  What  can  I  do  for  him  ? 
Marry  him  ?  Dare  I  ?  Would  it  not  be  the  same  selHng 
of  myself  ?     Yes — no,  it  would  be  even  worse  I" 

She  did  not  know  why  it  would  be  worse,  but  felt  it. 

"  Now,  I  am  at  least  frank.  Anyone  may  strike  me. 
Have  I  not  suffered  insults  ?  But  then,  how  would  I 
be  better  ?  Would  it  not  be  the  same  depravity,  only 
not  less  frank  ?  There  he  sits  asleep,  his  head  hanging 
backwards.  Mouth  open,  face  pale  as  death.  His  clothes 
are  all  stained.  He  must  have  fallen  down  somewhere. 
How  heavily  he  is  breathing  .  .  .  sometimes  even 
snoring. . . .  Yes,  but  this  will  all  pass,  and  he  will  become 
once  more  a  decent,  self-respecting  man.  No,  it  isn't 
that.     It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  let  this  man  get  the  upper 


AN  INCIDENT  39 

hand  of  me  he  will  torment  me  with  recollections  .  .  .  and 
I  could  not  endure  it.  No,  I'll  stay  what  I  am.  .  .  .  Yes, 
it  won't  be  for  much  longer." 

She  threw  a  shawl  around  her  shoulders  and  left  the 
room,  slamming  the  door  behind  her.  Ivan  Ivanovich 
woke  from  the  noise,  looked  around  him  with  unmeaning 
eyes,  and  feeling  it  uncomfortable  to  sleep  on  a  chair, 
with  difficulty  staggered  to  the  bed,  fell  on  to  it,  and 
dropped  off  into  a  dead  sleep.  He  awoke  with  his  head 
aching,  but  sober,  late  in  the  evening,  and,  seeing  where 
he  was,  fled. 

4e-  *  *  *  * 

I  left  the  house  not  knowing  where  I  was  going.  The 
weather  was  bad.  The  day  gloomy  and  dull.  A  wet 
snow  was  falling  on  my  face  and  hands.  It  would  have 
been  much  better  to  stay  indoors,  but  could  I  sit  there 
with  him  ?  He  is  going  absolutely  to  ruin.  What  can 
I  do  to  keep  him  ?  Can  I  change  my  relations  towards 
him  ?  My  whole  soul,  my  whole  inner  being  revolts  and 
burns  at  the  thought.  I  do  not  myself  know  why  I  do 
not  wish  to  take  advantage  of  this  opportunity  to  have 
done  with  this  awful  life,  to  rid  myself  of  this  nightmare. 
If  I  were  to  marry  him  ?  A  new  life,  new  hopes.  .  .  . 
Surely  the  feeling  of  pity  which  I  nevertheless  have  for 
him  would  turn  to  love  ? 

But  no  !  Now  he  is  ready  to  lick  my  hand,  but  after- 
wards will  trample  me  underfoot  and  say  :  "  And  you 
still  oppose  me,  contemptible  creature  !  You  despised 
me  !" 

Would  he  say  this  ?     I  think  so. 

There  is  one  means  of  salvation  for  me,  an  excellent 
one,  on  which  I  have  long  made  up  my  mind,  and  to 
which  I  expect  I  shall  eventually  have  recourse.  But 
I  think  it  is  still  too  soon.  I  am  too  young,  I  feel  too 
much  that  I  am  alive.  I  want  to  live,  to  breathe,  to  feel, 
hear,  see.  I  want  to  be  able,  even  if  rarely,  to  see  the 
sky  and  the  Neva. 


40  AN  INCIDENT 

Here  is  the  Quay.  On  the  one  side  enormous  buildings, 
and  on  the  other — the  blackening,  icebound  Neva.  The 
ice  will  soon  move,  and  then  the  river  will  be  blue.  The 
park  on  the  opposite  side  is  becoming  green.  The  islands, 
too,  are  becoming  covered  with  foliage.  Although  it  is 
a  Petersburg  spring,  still,  it  is  spring. 

And  suddenly  I  remembered  my  last  happy  spring. 
I  was  then  a  girl  of  seven  years,  and  lived  with  my  father 
and  mother  in  the  country  in  the  steppe.  They  paid  little 
heed  to  what  I  did,  and  I  ran  about  where  and  as  much  as 
I  chose.  I  remember  in  the  beginning  of  March  how 
the  rivers  rushed  along  the  gullies,  roaring  with  the  melted 
snow,  how  the  steppe  became  darker,  how  wonderful  the 
air  became,  how  moist  and  joyous.  First  the  top  of  the 
mounds  showed  themselves  with  the  short  grass  on 
them  becoming  green.  Then  afterv/ards  the  whole  steppe 
became  green,  although  drift  snow  still  lay  in  the  gullies 
and  ravines.  Rapidly,  in  a  few  days,  literally  as  if  they 
had  sprung  already  freed  from  out  of  the  earth,  bunches 
of  peonies  grew  up  and  on  them,  their  gaudy  bright 
crimson  blooms.     The  larks  began  to  sing. 

Oh  Lord  !  What  have  I  done  that  even  in  this  life 
I  have  been  thrown  into  hell  ?  Surely  all  that  I  go 
through  is  worse  than  any  hell ! 

The  stone  steps  lead  straight  down  to  a  prorub. 
Something  impelled  me  to  go  down  these  steps  and  look 
at  the  water.  But  is  it  too  soon  ?  Of  course  it  is.  I 
will  wait  a  little. 

All  the  same,  it  would  be  nice  to  stand  on  the  slippery 
wet  edge  of  the  prorub.  It  would  be  so  easy  to  slip 
in.  It  would  only  be  cold.  .  .  .  One  second — and  I 
should  float  under  the  ice  down  the  river.  A  mad 
beating  of  the  ice  above  with  hands,  feet,  head,  face.  It 
would  be  interesting  to  know  if  daylight  is  visible  through 
the  ice. 

I  stood  motionless  over  the  prorub,  and  so  long 
that  I  had  got  to  the  state  when  one  thinks  of  nothing. 


AN  INCIDENT  41 

My  feet  had  long  been  wet  through,  yet  I  did  not  move 
from  the  spot.  It  was  not  a  cold  wind,  but  it  pierced 
right  through  me,  so  that  I  was  shivering  all  over  ;  but 
still  I  stood  there.  I  do  not  know  how  long  this  would 
have  lasted  if  somebody  had  not  called  out  from  the 
Quay  : 

''  Heh,  Madame  !     Lady  !" 

I  did  not  turn  round. 

"  Lady,  please  come  back  on  to  the  pavement  !'* 

Somebody  behind  me  began  to  come  dov/n  the  steps. 
In  addition  to  the  shufBing  of  feet  along  the  steps  sprinkled 
with  sand,  I  heard  a  sort  of  dull  noise.  I  turned  round. 
It  was  a  gorodovoi,  who  had  come  down,  and  it  was 
his  sword  I  had  heard.  When  he  saw  my  face,  the  re- 
spectful expression  on  his  face  abruptly  changed  to  one 
of  coarse  insolence.  He  came  up  to  me  and  seized  me 
by  the  shoulder. 

"  Get  out  of  this,  you  !  The  likes  of  you  are  every- 
where. You  will  be  fool  enough  to  throw  yourself  into 
the  prorub,  and  then  I  shall  lose  my  billet  through 
you." 

He  knew  b}^  my  face  what  I  am. 


IV 

All  is  the  same  as  before.  It  is  not  possible  to  be  one 
minute  alone  without  being  seized  with  melancholy. 
What  shall  I  do  so  as  to  forget  ? 

Annushka  has  brought  me  a  letter.  From  whom  ? 
It  is  so  long  since  I  had  had  a  latter  from  anyone. 

"  Madame  Nadedja  Nicolaievna, 

"  Although  I  thoroughly  understand  that  I  am 
nothing  to  you,  I  nevertheless  beHeve  that  you  are  a  nice 
girl  and  will  not  want  to  offend  me.  For  the  first  and 
last  time  I  beg  you  to  come  and  see  me,  as  to-day  is  my 


42  AN  INCIDENT 

name-day.  I  have  no  relations,  no  friends.  I  implore 
you  to  come.  I  give  you  my  word  I  will  say  nothing 
displeasing  or  offensive.     Pity  your  devoted 

"  Ivan  Nikitin. 

"  P.S. — I  cannot  think  of  my  recent  behaviour  in  your 
rooms  without  shame.  Come  to-day  at  six  o'clock.  I 
enclose  my  address. — I.  N." 

What  does  this  mean  ?  He  has  had  the  courage  to 
write  to  me.  There  is  something  behind  it  all.  What 
does  he  want  to  do  with  me  ?     Shall  I  go  or  not  ? 

It  is  difficult  to  decide — go  or  not  ?  If  he  wants  to 
lure  me  into  a  trap,  either  to  kill  me  or  .  .  .  but  if  he  kills 
me,  all  is  ended. 

I  will  go. 

I  will  dress  more  plainly  and  modestly,  wash  the  rouge 
and  powder  off  my  face.  It  will  be  more  pleasing  to  him. 
I  will  do  my  hair  more  plainly.  How  my  hair  has  fallen 
out !  I  did  my  hair,  put  on  a  black  woollen  dress,  a 
black  scarf,  white  collar  and  cuffs,  and  went  to  the  glass 
to  look  at  myself. 

I  almost  cried  out  at  seeing  in  it  a  woman  not  at  all 
like  the  Evgenia  who  performs  indecent  dances  so  well 
at  various  cafes.  It  v/as  not  the  impudent,  berouged 
cocotte  with  smiling  face,  flash  puffed-out  chignon, 
and  pencilled  lashes.  This  draggled  and  suffering  woman, 
pale-faced  and  melancholy-looking,  with  big  black  eyes 
and  dark  circles  around  them,  is  something  quite  new — 
it  is  not  I.  But  perhaps  it  is  I.  And  that  Evgenia 
whom  all  see  and  know  is  something  strange,  mocking  me, 
pressing  me,  killing  me. 

And  I  really  cried.  I  cried  long  and  bitterly.  They 
have  assured  me  since  babyhood  that  one  feels  easier 
after  crying,  but  this  cannot  be  true  for  all,  because  I  do 
not  feel  easier,  but  worse.  Every  sob  hurts  me,  every 
tear  is  a  bitter  one.     To  those  who  have  still  some  hope 


AN  INCIDENT  43 

of  peace  and  of  being  cured  such  tears  perhaps  give 
relief ;  but  what  hope  have  I  ? 

I  dried  my  tears  and  started  off. 

***** 

I  found  the  address  without  any  difficulty,  and  the 
Finnish  maidservant  showed  me  Ivan  Ivanovich's  door. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?" 

There  was  a  sound  in  the  room  of  a  drawer  being 
hurriedly  shut.  "  Come  in  !"  Ivan  Ivanovich  called  out 
quickly.  I  entered.  He  was  sitting  at  a  writing-table 
and  was  sealing  an  envelope.  He  did  not  seem  even  to 
be  glad  to  see  me. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Ivan  Ivanovich  ?"  I  said. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  ?"  he  replied, 
rising  and  putting  out  his  hand.  A  gleam  of  tenderness 
flashed  across  his  face  when  I  put  out  my  hand,  but 
disappeared  immediately.  He  was  serious  and  even 
severe.     "  Thank  you  for  coming." 

"  Why  did  you  ask  me  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  My  goodness,  surely  you  know  what  it  means  to  me 
to  see  you  !     But  that  is  an  unpleasant  topic  for  you." 

We  sat  down  and  kept  silent.  The  Finn  maid 
brought  a  samovar.  Ivan  Ivanovich  gave  me  some 
tea  and  sugar.  Then  he  placed  some  jam,  biscuits, 
sweets,  and  half  a  bottle  of  wine  on  the  table. 

*'  Forgive  me  for  this  '  treat/  Nadejda  Nicolaievna. 
Perhaps  it  is  displeasing  to  you,  but  don't  be  angry. 
Be  kind,  make  and  pour  out  the  tea.  Eat  something — 
there  are  the  sweets  and  wine." 

I  began  to  do  the  duties  of  hostess,  and  he  sat  opposite 
me  so  that  his  face  was  in  the  shade,  and  began  to  gaze 
at  me.  I  felt  his  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  me,  and  felt  that 
I  was  getting  red. 

For  a  moment  I  raised  my  eyes,  but  dropped  them  again 
directly  because  he  continued  to  look  me  straight  in  the 
face.  What  does  it  mean  ?  Surely  the  surroundings, 
the  modest  black  dress,  the  absence  of  impudent  people 


44  AN  INCIDENT 

and  stupid  talk  has  not  affected  me  so  strongly  that  I 
have  once  more  turned  into  a  demure  and  confused  girl, 
such  as  I  was  two  years  ago  ?  I  was  annoyed,  vexed 
with  myself. 

"  Tell  me,  please,  v/hy  are  you  poking  your  eyes  out 
at  me  like  that  for  ?"  I  said,  with  an  effort,  but  bravely. 

Ivan  Ivanovich  jumped  up  and  began  to  walk  about 
the  room. 

"  Nadejda  Nicolaievna,  don't  be  common.  Be  just 
for  an  hour  as  you  were  when  you  arrived." 

"  But  I  don't  understand  why  you  have  sent  for  me. 
Surely  not  merely  to  sit  and  look  at  me  and  say  nothing." 

"  Yes,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna,  only  for  this.  It  at  least 
does  not  give  you  any  special  annoyance,  and  it  comforts 
me  to  look  at  you — for  the  last  time.  It  was  so  good  of 
you  to  come  in  that  dress.  I  did  not  expect  that,  and  I 
am  still  more  grateful  to  you  for  it." 

"  But  why  for  the  last  time,  Ivan  Ivanovich  ?" 

'*  I  am  going  av/ay." 

"  Where  ?" 

"  Far  away,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna.  It  is  not  my  name- 
day  at  all  to-day.  I  don't  know  Vv^hy  I  wrote  that.  I 
simply  wanted  to  see  you  once  more.  First,  I  meant  to 
have  gone  out  and  waited  until  I  met  you,  but  afterwards 
I  decided  to  beg  you  to  come  here.  And  you  were  good 
enough  to  come.     God  grant  you  happiness  !" 

*'  There  is  little  happiness  ahead  for  me,  Ivan  Ivano- 
vich." 

*'  Yes,  that  is  true,  for  you  there  is  little  happiness. 
But  you  know  better  than  I  what  is  ahead  of  you.  ..." 
His  voice  trembled.  "  I  am  better  off,"  he  added, 
"  because  I  am  going  away."  And  his  voice  trembled 
still  more. 

I  began  to  feel  inexpressibly  sorry  for  him.  Was  it 
just  all  the  bad  I  had  felt  against  him  ?  Why  had  I 
pushed  him  away  so  coarsely  and  harshly  ?  But  now 
it  was  already  too  late  for  regrets. 


AN  INCIDENT  45 

I  got  up  and  began  to  put  on  my  things.  Ivan  Ivano- 
vich  jumped  up  as  if  stung. 

"  You  are  going  already  ?"  he  asked  in  an  agitated 
voice. 

**  Yes,  I  must  go.  .  .  ." 

"  You  must  ?  .  .  .  Again  there  ?  Nadejda  Nico- 
laievna  !     Yes,  better  for  me  to  kill  you  at  once  !" 

He  said  this  in  a  whisper,  having  seized  me  by  the 
arm  and  looking  at  me  with  a  troubled  expression  in  his 
dilated  eyes. 

"  Is  it  better  ?     Tell  me  !" 

"  But  you  know,  Ivan  Ivanovich,  that  you  vrill  go  to 
Siberia  for  it.     And  I  don't  want  that  at  all." 

**  To  Siberia  !  .  .  .  And  is  it  only  out  of  fear  of  Siberia 
that  I  cannot  kill  you  ?  .  .  .  No,  that  is  not  why.  .  .  . 
I  cannot  kill  you  because  .  .  .  but  how  can  I  kill  you  ? 
How  can  I  kill  you  ?"  he  murmured  chokingly,  .  .  . 
*'I " 

And  he  seized  me,  lifted  me  up  as  if  I  had  been  a  child, 
crushing  me  in  his  embrace,  and  raining  kisses  on  my  face, 
lips,  eyes,  and  hair.  Then,  just  as  suddenly  as  this  had 
all  happened,  he  put  me  down  and  said  quickly : 

*'  Well,  go  !  go  !  ,  .  .  Forgive  me,  but  it  is  the  first 
and  last  time.  Don't  be  angry  with  me.  Go,  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna  !" 

**  I  am  not  angry,  Ivan  Ivanovich.  ..." 

"  Go  !  Go  !     Thank  you  for  coming." 

He  saw  me  to  the  door,  and  immediately  afterwards 
locked  it.  I  began  to  go  down  the  staircase.  I  was 
feeling  more  depressed  than  before. 

Let  him  go  and  forget  me.  I  will  stay  and  live  out  my 
time.     Enough  of  sentimentality.     I'll  go  home. 

I  quickened  my  pace,  and  began  to  think  of  what 
dress  I  should  wear  and  where  to  go  in  the  evening.  And 
so  my  romance  has  ended,  a  momentary  halt  on  the 
slippery  path  !  Now  I  shall  go  on  without  let  or  hin- 
drance ever  lower  and  lower.  .  .  . 


46  AN  INCIDENT 

But  if  he  means  to  shoot  himself  now !  suddenly  some- 
thing cried  out  within  me.  I  stopped  as  if  transfixed. 
My  eyes  became  dark,  cold  shivers  ran  down  my  back. 
I  could  not  breathe.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  is  at  this  moment 
killing  himself  !  He  slammed  the  drawer — he  was  look- 
ing at  a  revolver.  He  had  written  a  letter.  .  .  .  The  last 
time.  .  .  .  Run  !  Perhaps  I  shall  yet  be  in  time.  Oh 
God  !  stop  him  !     God  !  leave  him  for  me  ! 

A  mortal  strange  fear  seized  me.  I  rushed  back  as 
if  possessed,  tearing  my  way  through  passers-by.  I  do 
not  remember  how  I  tore  up  the  stairs.  I  only  remember 
the  vacant  face  of  the  Finn  servant  who  let  me  in.  I 
remember  the  long,  dark  corridor  with  its  row  of  doors. 
I  remember  how  I  threw  myself  at  his  door  ;  but  as  I 
seized  the  handle  a  shot  resounded  from  inside.  People 
rushed  out  from  all  sides,  everything  swam  around  me, 
people,  corridor,  doors,  walls.  And  I  fell  .  .  .  everything 
in  my  head  also  swam  and  disappeared.  .  .  . 


IV 

COWARD 

The  war  is  decidedly  giving  me  no  rest.     I  see  clearly 
that  it  is  dragging,  and  when  it  will  end  is  very  difficult 
to  foretell.     Our  soldiers  are  as  splendid  as  ever,  but  the 
enemy  has  proved  far  from  being  as  weak  as  we  thought, 
and  nov/,  four  months  from  the  declaration  of  war,  no 
decisive  success  has  been  gained  by  our  side.     In  the 
meanwhile  every  extra  day  claims  its  hundreds  of  victims. 
Is  it  my  nerves  which  cause  the  telegrams  merely  stating 
the  numbers  of  killed  and  wounded  to  affect  me  far  more 
than  those  around  me  ?     Somebody  will  calmly  read 
out :    "  Our  losses  insignificant ;   officers,   wounded,    so 
many,  giving  names  ;  rank  and  file,  killed,  50  ;  wounded, 
100,"  and  even  rejoice  that  the  numbers  are  so  small; 
but  to  me  the  reading  of  such  news  immediately  brings 
the  whole  bloody  picture  before  my  eyes.     Fifty  dead, 
one  hundred  maimed — this  is  "  insignificant !"     Why  are 
we  so  horrified  when  the  newspapers  inform  us  of  some 
murder  where  the  victims  are  few  ?     Why  does  not  the 
sight  of  corpses  riddled  with  bullets  lying  on  a  battle- 
field strike  us  with  the  same  horror  as  the  interior  of  a 
house  ransacked  by  murder  ?     Why  does  a  catastrophe 
costing   the  lives  of    some  scores  of   persons  cause  all 
Russia  to  cry  out,  whilst  nobody  pays  any  attention  to 
advanced-guard  skirmishes  with  "  insignificant  "  losses, 
also  of  some  scores  of  men  ? 

47 


48  COWARD 

A  few  days  ago  Lvoff,  a  medical  student  and  a 
friend  of  mine,  with  whom  I  often  argue  about  the 
war,  said  to  me  :  *'  Well,  we  shall  see,  my  peaceful 
friend,  what  will  become  of  your  humanitarian  convic- 
tions when  you  are  called  up  and  are  obliged  to  fire  at 
people." 

"  Me,  Vassili  Petrovich  ?  They  will  not  call  me  up. 
I  am  in  the  Militia  Reserve." 

"  That  may  be,  but  if  the  war  drags  on  it  will  affect 
the  Militia  as  well.  Do  not  be  too  sure  about  it.  Your 
turn  will  come." 

My  heart  seemed  to  contract.  How  was  it  that  this 
thought  had  not  come  into  my  head  before  ?  Of  course 
the  Militia  will  be  called  up.  There  was  nothing  impos- 
sible in  that.  *'  If  the  war  drags  on,"  and  it  is  sure  to 
drag  on.  Even  if  this  war  does  not  last  long  it  is  all  the 
same,  some  other  war  will  commence.  Why  not  have 
a  war  ?  Why  not  perform  great  exploits  ?  It  seems  to 
me  that  the  present  war  is  only  the  forerunner  of  future 
wars  from  which  I  shall  not  escape,  nor  my  little  brother, 
nor  even  my  sister's  baby  boy.  And  my  turn  will  come 
very  soon. 

What  will  become  of  your  "  ego  "  ?  Your  whole  being 
protests  against  the  war,  but  nevertheless  the  war  will 
compel  you  to  shoulder  a  rifle,  and  go  to  die . . .  and  kill. .  .  . 
No,  it  is  impossible  !  I  am  a  quiet,  kind-hearted  young 
man  who  has  up  till  now  known  only  his  books,  the 
lecture-room,  the  family  circle,  and  one  or  two  close 
friends  ;  who  has  dreamt  in  one  or  two  years'  time  of 
beginning  other  work,  the  labour  of  love  and  of  truth. 
I  have  been  accustomed  to  regard  this  world  objectively, 
accustomed  to  place  it  before  me.  I  have  imagined  I 
understood  all  the  evil  in  it,  and  so  would  be  able  to  avoid 
this  evil.  But  now  I  see  my  whole  building  of  tranquillity 
destroyed,  and  I  see  myself  automatically  fitting  on  to 
my  shoulders  those  same  tatters,  holes,  and  stains  which 
I  have  hitherto  only  looked  at.     And  no  kind  of  develop- 


COWARD  49 

ment,  no  self-knowledge,  no  knowledge  of  the  world,  no 
kind  of  spiritual  liberty  will  give  me  a  pitiful  physical 
liberty — the  liberty  to  dispose  of  my  own  body. 
*  *  *  *  * 

Lvoff  laughs  when  I  begin  to  expound  my  views  against 
the  war  to  him. 

"  My  dear  old  chap,  look  at  things  more  simply,  life 
Vvill  be  easier  then,"  says  he.  "  Do  you  think  that  this 
carnage  is  to  my  taste  ?  Apart  from  the  fact  that  it  will 
bring  misfortune  on  all,  it  also  affects  me  personally.  It 
will  not  let  me  finish  my  studies.  They  will  reduce  the 
term  of  the  courses,  and  send  us  out  to  cut  off  legs  and 
arms.  For  all  that  I  do  not  worry  myself  with  fruitless 
reflections  on  the  horrors  of  war,  because,  whatever  I 
may  think,  I  can  do  nothing  to  abolish  it.  Surely  it  is 
better  not  to  think  about  it,  but  to  mind  one's  own 
business  ?  If  they  send  us  to  treat  the  wounded,  I  shall 
go  and  do  so.  What  is  to  be  done  in  such  a  time  as  this  ? 
One  must  sacrifice  oneself.  By  the  way,  do  you  know 
that  Masha  is  going  as  a  hospital  nurse  ?" 

"  Not  really  ?" 

*'  The  day  before  yesterday  she  made  up  her  mind,  and 
to-day  has  gone  to  practise  bandaging.  I  did  not  try  to 
dissuade  her,  but  only  asked  her  how  she  intends  to 
arrange  about  her  studies. 

"  *  Afterwards,'  she  says  ...  *  I  will  study  afterwards  if 
I  am  alive.'  Never  mind ;  let  her  go  as  a  nurse.  It  will 
do  her  good." 

"  And  what  about  Kuzma  Thomich  ?" 

"  Kuzma  says  nothing,  only  he  has  become  almost 
ferociously  gloomy,  and  has  quite  given  up  studying.  I 
am  glad  for  his  sake  that  my  sister  is  going.  He  is  simply 
wasting  away,  and  is  in  torture.  He  follows  her  like  her 
shadow  and  does  nothing.  Well — it  is  love  !"  and  Vassili 
Petrovich  shook  his  head.  "  He  has  rushed  off  now  to 
escort  her  home,  as  if  she  has  not  always  gone  about 
alone  !" 


50  COWARD 

*'  It  seems  to  me,  Vassili  Petrovich,  that  it  is  a  pity  he 
lives  with  you." 

"  Of  course  it  is  a  pity,  but  who  could  have  foreseen 
this  ?  For  myself  and  sister  this  lodging  is  too  large. 
There  was  one  room  too  many.  Why  not  let  it  to  a  nice 
man  ?  And  a  nice  man  took  it  and  has  fallen  in  love. 
And  I  am  sorry,  and  it  is  sad  for  her.  How  is  Kuzma 
beneath  her  ?  He  is  a  kind,  intelligent,  good  chap.  But 
she  literally  does  not  seem  to  notice  him.  But  now  make 
yourself  scarce.  I  have  no  time  to  waste.  If  you  want 
to  see  my  sister  and  Kuzma,  wait  in  the  dining-room. 
They  will  be  back  soon." 

**  No,  Vassili  Petrovich,  I  also  have  no  time  to  spare. 
Good-bye." 

I  had  only  just  got  into  the  street  when  I  saw  Mary 
Petrovna  and  Kuzma.  They  were  coming  along  without 
speaking.  Mary  Petrovna  in  front,  with  a  determined, 
concentrated  expression  on  her  face,  and  Kuzma  a  little 
to  one  side  behind  her,  literally  not  daring  to  walk  along- 
side her,  but  from  time  to  time  casting  a  hurried  glance 
towards  her  face.     They  passed  by  without  seeing  me. 

•3f  *  *  *  * 

I  can  do  nothing  and  think  of  nothing.  I  have  read 
the  account  of  the  third  fight  before  Plevna.  Twelve 
thousand  casualties  amongst  the  Russians  and  Rouma- 
nians alone  ! — without  counting  the  Turks — twelve  thou- 
sand !  .  .  .  These  figures  come  before  me  in  the  form  of 
an  endless,  drawn-out  string  of  corpses  lying  side  by 
side.  If  placed  shoulder  to  shoulder  they  would  form  a 
road  eight  versts  long. 

''What  is  this?" 

They  tell  me  something  about  Skobeloff :  that  he 
hurled  himself  at  some  place,  attacked  something,  took 
some  fort,  or  they  have  taken  it  from  him — I  do  not 
remember.  In  this  awful  affair  I  understand  and  see 
only  one  thing — a  mountain  of  corpses  serving  as  a 
pedestal  for  grandiose  matters  which  will  be  inscribed 


COWARD  51 

on  the  pages  of  history.  Perhaps  it  is  necessary — I  will 
not  take  it  upon  myself  to  judge,  and  I  cannot.  I  am  not 
arguing  about  the  war,  but  regard  it  with  a  direct  feeling 
aroused  by  the  wholesale  shedding  of  blood.  The  bullock 
before  the  eyes  of  which  other  bullocks  are  slaughtered 
probably  experiences  something  similar.  It  does  not 
understand  why  it  is  to  be  killed,  and  only  gazes  terrified, 
with  starting  eyes,  at  the  blood,  and  bellows  in  a  despairing, 
heart-rending  manner. 

*  *  *  *  -x- 

Am  I  a  coward  or  not  ? 

To-day  I  was  told  that  I  am  a  coward.  Certainly  it 
was  a  very  shallow-minded  person  v/ho  said  so  when  I 
declared  in  her  presence  my  unwillingness  to  go  to  the 
war,  and  expressed  a  fear  that  they  will  call  me  up  to 
serve.  Her  opinion  did  not  distress  me,  but  raised  the 
question — Am  I  really  a  coward  ?  Perhaps  all  my 
aversion  against  what  everyone  else  considers  a  great 
matter  only  arises  from  fear  of  my  skin  !  Is  it  really 
worth  while  to  worry  about  any  one  unimportant  life  in 
view  of  a  great  matter  ?  And  am  I  capable  of  subjecting 
my  life  to  danger  generally  for  the  sake  of  any  matter  ? 

I  did  not  occupy  myself  for  any  length  of  time  with 
these  questions.  I  recalled  my  whole  life,  all  those  occa- 
sions— truth  to  say,  not  many — on  v/hich  I  have  been 
brought  face  to  face  with  danger,  and  I  could  not  charge 
myself  with  cowardice.  I  did  not  fear  for  my  life  then, 
and  I  do  not  now.  Consequently  it  is  not  death  which 
frightens  me.  .  .  . 

Always  fresh  battles,  fresh  mortal  suffering.  After 
reading  the  papers  I  can  do  nothing.  In  books,  instead 
of  letters,  I  see  prostrate  rows  of  human  beings.  My  pen 
seems  a  weapon  inflicting  black  wounds  on  the  white 
paper.  If  this  goes  much  further  it  will  become  regular 
hallucinations.  But  now  a  new  trouble  has  appeared 
which  has  somewhat  taken  me  away  from  the  everlasting 
oppressing  thought. 


52  COWARD 

Yesterday  evening  I  went  to  the  LvofiEs  and  found 
them  at  tea.  The  brother  and  sister  were  sitting  at  the 
table,  but  Kuzma  was  pacing  quickly  from  corner  to 
corner  of  the  room,  holding  his  hand  to  a  swollen  face 
tied  up  with  a  handkerchief. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  I  asked  him. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  only  made  a  gesture  with  his 
hand  and  continued  his  pacing. 

*'  His  teeth  have  been  aching,  and  an  enormous  abscess 
has  formed,"  said  Mary  Petrovna.  "  I  begged  him  at 
the  time  to  go  and  see  a  doctor,  but  he  would  not  listen 
to  me,  and  now  see  what  it  has  come  to." 

"  The  doctor  will  be  here  directly.  I  went  for  him," 
said  Vassili  Petrovich. 

"  Very  necessary,"  murmured  Kuzma  through  his  teeth. 

*'  Of  course,  when  it  might  easily  turn  into  something 
most  serious,  and  you  still  keep  walking  about,  in  spite 
of  my  entreaties  to  lie  down.  Do  you  know  how  this 
sometimes  ends  ?" 

"  It  is  all  the  same  how  it  ends,"  muttered  Kuzma. 

"  Not  at  all,  Kuzma  Thomich,"  put  in  Mary  Petrovna 
quietly.     "  Do  not  talk  nonsense." 

These  words  v/ere  sufficient  to  calm  Kuzma.  He  even 
sat  down  at  the  table  and  asked  for  some  tea.  Mary 
Petrovna  poured  some  out,  and  handed  him  the  glass. 
When  he  took  the  glass  from  her  hand  his  face  took  on  a 
triumphant  expression  which  was  so  incongruous  with 
the  comical  appearance  given  him  by  his  swollen  cheek 
that  I  could  not  help  smiling.  Lvoff  also  laughed.  Only 
Mary  Petrovna  looked  seriously  and  compassionately  at 
Kuzma. 

The  doctor  arrived,  a  fresh-looking,  ruddy-complexioned 
man  with  cheeks  like  rosy  apples  and  a  most  cheery 
manner.  But  when  he  examined  the  patient's  neck  his 
usual  cheery  expression  changed  to  one  of  some  concern. 

**  Come  along,"  said  he,  **  let  us  go  into  your  room. 
I  must  have  a  good  look  at  you." 


COWARD  53 

I  went  after  them  to  Kuzma's  room.  The  doctor 
placed  him  on  the  bed  and  commenced  to  examine  the 
upper  portion  of  his  chest,  carefully  tapping  it  with  his 
fingers. 

"  H'm,  you  must  lie  quietly  and  not  get  up.  Have  you 
any  friends  who  would  give  up  some  of  their  spare  time 
for  you  ?"  inquired  the  doctor. 

*'  I  think  so,"  replied  Kuzma  in  a  perplexed  tone. 

"  I  would  ask  them,"  said  the  doctor,  turning  politely 
to  me,  "  to  look  after  the  patient  from  to-day,  and  if  any 
new  symptoms  appear  to  come  for  me." 

He  left  the  room.  Lvoff  escorted  him  to  the  passage, 
where  they  talked  for  a  long  time  in  low  tones  about 
something,  and  I  went  to  Mary  Petrovna.  She  was 
sitting  in  a  thoughtful  pose,  resting  her  head  on  one  hand, 
and  with  the  other  was  slowly  stirring  her  tea. 

"  The  doctor  has  ordered  someone  to  watch  Kuzma." 

"  Is  there  really  any  danger  ?"  Mary  Petrovna  asked 
with  alarm. 

"  Probably  there  is — otherwise,  why  should  it  be  neces- 
sary to  watch  him  ?  You  will  not  refuse  to  look  after 
him  ?" 

"  Of  course  not.  I  have  not  gone  to  the  war,  but  yet 
must  turn  nurse.  Let  us  go  to  him.  It  must  be  very  dull 
for  him  to  lie  all  alone." 

Kuzma  met  us  smiling,  so  far  as  his  swollen  cheek 
allowed  him  to  do  so. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  ''  and  I  was  already  beginning 
to  think  you  had  forgotten  me." 

"  No,  Kuzma  Thomich,  we  will  not  forget  you  now. 
We  must  look  after  you.  See  what  becomes  of  disobe- 
dience," said  Mary  Petrovna  smilingly. 

"  And  shall  you ?"  timidly  asked  Kuzma. 

"  Yes,  yes,  only  you  will  have  to  obey  me." 

Kuzma  closed  his  eyes  and  reddened  with  pleasure. 

*'  Ah,  yes,"  said  he  suddenly,  turning  to  me.  "  Give 
me  the  looking-glass ;  it  is  lying  on  the  table." 


54  ^  COWARD 

I  gave  him  a  small  round  looking-glass.  Kuzma 
begged  me  to  show  him  the  light,  and  with  the  help  of  the 
glass  he  looked  at  the  place.  After  this  his  face  darkened, 
and,  notwithstanding  that  we  three  tried  to  make  him 
talk,  he  never  uttered  a  word  all  the  evening. 

•Jf  x-  *  *  -x- 

To-day  they  have  told  me  that  they  will  soon  call  up 
the  Militia.  I  have  expected  it,  and  was  not  much 
surprised.  I  could  get  out  of  the  fate  I  so  fear.  I  could 
make  use  of  certain  influential  friends,  and  stay  in 
St.  Petersburg  at  my  post.  They  could  "  arrange  "  it 
for  me,  or  send  me  as  a  clerk.  But  first  I  dislike  resorting 
to  such  means,  and  second  something  vague  and  un- 
defined within  me  is  weighing  up  my  position,  and  forbids 
me  shirk  the  war.  "  It  is  not  right,"  says  a  little  voice 
inside  me. 

*  *  -jf  *  * 

Something  I  never  dreamt  of  has  happened. 

I  went  this  morning  to  relieve  Mary  Petrovna  in 
watching  Kuzma.  She  met  me  at  the  door  with  tear- 
stained  eyes,  pale  and  worn  out  with  a  sleepless  night. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Mary  Petrovna  ?" 

"  Hush !"  she  whispered.  "  Do  you  knov/  all  is 
ended  ?" 

"  What  is  ended  ?     He  is  not  dead  ?" 

''  No,  no,  not  yet — but  there  is  no  possible  hope. 
Both  doctors — we  called  in  another "  Tears  pre- 
vented her  from  saying  more. 

*'  Come  and  look  at  him." 

"  You  must  first  dry  those  tears  and  drink  some  water. 
You  will  quite  upset  him." 

"  It  is  all  the  same.  Does  not  he  know  already  !  He 
knew  yesterday  when  he  asked  for  the  glass.  He  would 
soon  have  been  a  doctor  himself." 

The  heavy  atmosphere  of  an  operating  theatre  filled 
Ihe  room  in  which  the  sick  man  lay.  His  bed  had  been 
moved  into  the  middle  of  the  room.     His  long  legs,  huge 


COWARD  55 

body,  and  arms  stretched  by  his  sides,  showed  up  clearly 
under  the  blanket.  His  eyes  were  closed,  and  he  was 
breathing  slowly  and  heavily.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he 
had  grown  thinner  in  one  night.  His  face  was  sticky 
and  moist,  and  had  an  unpleasant  greenish  tinge. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him  ?"  I  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"  Let  him  tell  you.     You  stay  with  him.     I  cannot." 

She  left  the  room,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands  and 
convulsed  v/ith  the  sobs  she  was  trying  to  restrain,  and  I 
sat  down  near  the  bed  and  w^aited  until  he  should  awake. 
There  was  an  oppressive  stillness  in  the  room.  Only  the 
rare,  heavy  breathing  of  the  sick  man  was  heard  and  the 
soft  ticking  of  a  watch  lying  on  a  little  table  near  the 
bed.  I  looked  at  his  face,  which  was  scarcely  recog- 
nizable. It  was  not  that  his  features  had  changed  so 
much,  but  that  I  saw  an  entirely  new  light  in  them. 
I  had  known  Kuzma  for  a  long  time,  a-nd  we  were  friends, 
although  not  on  especially  intimate  terms.  I  had  never 
been  on  such  terms  with  him  as  now.  I  recalled  his  life, 
disappointments,  and  joys  as  if  they  had  been  my  own. 
In  his  love  for  Mary  Petrovna  I  had  hitherto  seen  more 
of  the  comic  side,  but  now  I  understood  what  torments 
this  being  must  have  experienced.  Was  he  really  in  such 
danger  ?  I  wondered.  He  cannot  be.  Surely  a  man 
cannot  die  from  toothache  !  Mary  Petrovna  is  crying 
about  him,  but  he  wall  recover,  and  all  will  be  well. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  me.  Without  changing 
the  expression  on  his  face,  he  said  slowly,  pausing  after 
each  w^ord  : 

"  How  do  you  do  ? — See  what — I  am  like. — The  end 
has  come.  Has  come  so — stealthily,  unexpectedly — it  is 
stupid." 

"  Tell  me,  Kuzma,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 
Perhaps  it  is  nothing  like  so  bad  as  all  that." 

"  Not  so  bad, — you  say.  No,  no,  old  friend — it  is  very 
bad.  I  do  not  make  mistakes  on  such  a  simple  matter 
as  this.    Look  1" 


56  COWARD 

He  slowly  and  mechanically  turned  down  the  blanket 
and  unbuttoned  his  shirt.     Commencing  from  the  right 
side  of  his  neck  was  a  dark,  unpleasant-looking  patch, 
the  size  of  one's  hand,  extending  to  his  chest — gangrene. 
*  *  *  *  * 

For  four  days  now  by  the  sick  man's  bedside  I  have  not 
closed  my  eyes,  sitting  first  with  Mary  Petrovna  and  then 
with  her  brother.  The  patient  appears  to  be  barely 
living,  yet  life  seems  to  be  unwilling  to  leave  his  strong 
body.  They  have  cut  out  the  dead  flesh,  and  the  doctors 
have  ordered  us  to  wash  the  gaping  wound  left  by  the 
operation  every  two  hours.  Every  two  hours  we  two  or 
three  go  to  his  bed,  turn  him  over,  raise  his  huge  body, 
and  wash  the  terrible  wound  with  carbolic  acid  through 
a  gutta-percha  tube.  It  sprays  the  wound,  and  Kuzma 
sometimes  finds  strength  even  to  smile  because  he  ex- 
plains "  it  tickles."  As  is  the  case  with  all  persons  who 
are  rarely  ill,  he  likes  being  nursed  and  tended  like  a 
child,  and  when  Mary  Petrovna  takes  in  her  hands  what 
he  calls  "  the  reins  of  government  " — that  is,  the  gutta- 
percha tube — and  begins  to  spray,  he  is  especially  pleased, 
and  declares  that  no  one  can  do  this  so  skilfully  as  she, 
notwithstanding  the  fact  that  her  trembling  hands  often 
cause  the  bed  to  be  soaked  with  water. 

How  their  relations  have  altered  !  Mary  Petrovna, 
who  had  been  something  unattainable  for  him,  on  whom 
he  had  gazed  and  feared,  who  had  never  taken  any  notice 
of  him,  now  nurses  him  tenderly,  and  often  sits  crying 
quietly  by  his  bedside.  And  he  calmly  accepts  it  all  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and  talks  to  her  as  would  a  father  to  his 
little  daughter. 

Sometimes  he  suffers  very  much.  His  wound  burns 
and  fever  racks  him.  .  .  .  Then  strange  thoughts  come 
into  my  brain.  To  me  Kuzma  seems  one  of  those  of 
whom  there  are  tens  of  thousands  mentioned  in  the 
reports.  By  his  pain  and  sufferings  I  attempt  to  measure 
the  evil  caused  by  the  war.     How  much  suffering  and 


COWARD  57 

anguish  here  in  one  room,  on  one  bed — and  yet  all  this  is 
merely  one  drop  in  the  sea  of  sorrow  and  agony  being 
experienced  by  the  enormous  number  of  those  whom 
they  are  sending  forward  only  to  lie  on  the  field  in 
heaps  of  dead  or  still  groaning,  blood-stained,  plundered 
bodies. 

I  must  ask  Lvoff  or  Mary  Petrovna  to  take  my  place, 
if  only  for  a  couple  of  hours,  whilst  I  have  a  rest.  I  am 
utterly  worn  out  from  want  of  sleep  and  my  depressing 
thoughts. 

***** 

I  was  sleeping  soundly,  curled  up  on  the  little  sofa, 
when  I  was  awakened  by  someone  touching  my  shoulder. 

"  Get  up  !  get  up  !"  said  Mary  Petrovna. 

I  jumped  up  instantly,  without  at  first  understanding 
anything.  Mary  Petrovna  whispered  something  rapidly 
in  a  frightened  manner  to  me. 

"  Spots  !  new  spots  !"  I  gathered  at  last. 

"  What  spots,  and  where  ?" 

"  Oh  dear,  dear!  he  does  not  understand,"  she  wailed. 
"  New  spots  have  appeared  on  Kuzma  Thomich.  I  have 
already  sent  for  the  doctor." 

"  But  perhaps  it  is  nothing,"  said  I,  with  the  indifference 
of  a  just-awakened  man. 

'*  How  nothing  ?     Look  for  yourself." 

Kuzma  was  wrapped  in  a  heavy,  restless  sleep.  He 
kept  tossing  his  head  from  side  to  side,  and  sometim.es 
groaned  deeply.  His  chest  was  bare,  and  I  saw  on  it, 
an  inch  or  so  below  the  bandaged  wound,  two  new  little 
black  spots.  The  gangrene  had  penetrated  further  under 
the  skin,  and  spreading  under  it,  had  come  to  the  surface 
in  two  places.  Although  before  this  I  had  little  hope  of 
his  recovery,  these  new  unmistakable  symptoms  of  death 
made  me  turn  pale. 

Mary  Petrovna  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  room  with  her 
hands  on  her  knees,  and  silently  gazed  at  me  with  de- 
spairing eyes. 


58  COWARD 

*'  You  must  not  despair,"  I  said  to  her.  "  The  doctor 
will  be  here  directly,  and  will  examine  him.  Perhaps  it 
is  not  yet  all  over,  and  perhaps  we  shall  yet  pull  him 
round." 

"  No,  he  will  die,"  she  whispered. 

"  Well,  if  he  dies,"  I  answered,  also  quietly,  '*  it  will,  of 
course,  be  a  great  grief  to  all  of  us,  but  you  must  not  wear 
yourself  out  in  this  manner.     You  look  half  dead." 

"  You  do  not  understand  what  tortures  I  suffer  these 
days.  I  cannot  myself  explain  why  I  did  not  love  him, 
and  even  now  do  not  love  him,  in  the  way  he  does  me. 
But  if  he  dies  my  heart  will  break.  I  shall  always  re- 
member his  steady,  open  glance,  his  persistent  silence 
when  near  me,  although  he  liked  talking,  and  could  talk 
well.  I  shall  always  reproach  myself  that  I  did  not 
take  pity  on  him,  did  not  appreciate  his  cleverness,  his 
love,  his  devotion.  Perhaps  this  seems  ridiculous  to 
you,  but  the  thought  is  a  constant  torture  to  me  now 
that  if  I  had  loved  him — we  should  have  lived  quite 
differently.  All  w^ould  have  happened  differently,  and 
this  awful  and  stupid  business  would  not  have  happened. 
One  thinks  and  thinks,  excuses  and  justifies  oneself,  but 
all  the  time  at  the  bottom  of  one's  mind  something  keeps 
saying — Your  fault,  your  fault,  your  fault !" 

At  that  moment  I  glanced  at  the  patient,  fearing  that 
our  v/hispering  would  awaken  him,  and  saw  a  change 
in  his  face.  He  had  awaked,  and  was  listening  to  what 
Mary  Petrovna  was  saying,  but  did  not  wish  to  show  he 
was.  His  lips  trembled,  his  cheeks  burned,  his  whole 
face  was  lighted  up  literally  as  if  by  the  sun,  just  as 
a  wet,  sombre-looking  field  is  brightened  up  when  the 
clouds  above  it  open  and  allow  a  ray  of  sunshine  to  peep 
through.  He  had  evidently  forgotten  about  his  sickness 
and  fear  of  death.  Only  one  feeling  filled  him,  and  two 
tears  trickled  from  his  closed  and  trembhng  eyelids. 
Mary  Petrovna  looked  at  him  for  a  second  or  two  half- 
frightenedly,     and    then    blushed.     A    soft     expression 


COWARD  59 

flashed  into  her  face,  and,  bending  over  the  poor  half- 
corpse,  she  kissed  him. 

Then  he  opened  his  eyes.  '*  My  God,  how  I  do  not 
want  to  die  !"  he  murmured.  And  suddenly  strange, 
quiet  sobbing  sounds  filled  the  room — sounds  quite  new 
to  me,  who  had  never  seen  this  man  cry.  I  left  the  room, 
I  was  almost  breaking  down  myself. 

I  also  do  not  want  to  die,  and  all  these  thousands  do 
not  want  to  die.  Kuzma  at  least  has  found  consolation 
in  his  last  moments — but  there  at  the  war  !  Kuzma,  for 
all  his  fear  of  death  and  his  physical  suffering,  would 
scarcely  change  these  present  moments  for  any  others 
of  his  life.  No,  it  is  not  that  at  all !  Death  will  always 
be  death,  but  to  die  amidst  those  near  and  dear  to  one, 
and  falling  into  the  mud  and  one's  own  blood,  momen- 
tarily expecting  someone  will  come  up  and  finish  you 
off,  or  that  guns  will  ride  over  you  and  crush  you  like  a 
worm. 

"  I  tell  you  frankly,"  said  the  doctor  to  me  in  the 
passage,  as  he  put  on  his  shuba  and  galoshes,  "  that 
with  similar  cases  in  hospitals  ninety-nine  out  of  one 
hundred  are  fatal.  I  can  only  hope  on  the  attentive 
nursing,  the  wonderful  spirits  of  the  patient,  and  his 
burning  desire  to  recover." 

"  Every  sick  person  longs  to  recover,  doctor." 

"  Of  course,  but  your  friend  has  certain  vivifying 
circumstances,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  smile.  "  And  so 
this  evening  we  shall  operate  again,  and  hope  for  the 
best." 

He  shook  my  hand,  and  went  off  on  his  rounds,  leaving 
behind  him  the  smell  of  his  bearskin  shuba.  In  the 
evening  he  came  with  his  instruments. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like,  my  embryo  colleague,  to 
operate  for  practice,"  said  he,  turning  to  Lvoff.  Lvoff 
nodded  his  head  in  assent,  turned  up  his  sleeves,  and  with 
a  serious,  gloomy  expression  on  his  face,  began.     I  saw 


6o  COWARD 

how  he  inserted  some  wonderful-looking,  three-edged 
instrument  into  the  wound,  and  saw  how  Kuzma,  as  the 
keen  edge  pierced  his  body,  clutched  the  bedstead  with 
his  hands  and  clenched  his  teeth  with  the  pain. 

"  Don't  be  an  old  woman,"  said  Lvoff  to  him  gruffly, 
placing  a  tampon  into  the  new  wound. 

"  Does  it  hurt  very  much  ?"  asked  Mary  Petrovna 
tenderly. 

"  Not  so  very  much,  dearie,  but  I  have  grown  weak,  and 
am  worn  out." 

They  bandaged  him,  gave  him  some  wine,  and  he 
calmed  down.  The  doctor  left,  and  I,  with  Mary 
Petrovna,  began  to  put  the  room  in  order. 

"  Put  the  clothes  right,"  murmured  Kuzma  in  an  even, 
dull  voice.     ''  There  is  a  draught." 

I  commenced  to  readjust  his  pillows  and  bedclothes 
according  to  his  directions,  which  he  gave  very  irritably, 
declaring  that  somewhere  about  his  left  elbow  there  was 
a  small  opening  through  which  the  cold  was  coming,  and 
begging  me  to  tuck  the  clothes  in  better.  I  tried  to  do 
my  best,  but  notwithstanding  all  my  efforts  Kuzma  still 
felt  a  draught,  now  at  his  side,  then  by  his  feet. 

**  You  are  very  awkward,"  he  grumbled.  "  There  is  a 
draught  again  at  my  back.  Let  her."  He  glanced  at 
Mary  Petrovna,  and  then  it  became  quite  clear  to  me 
why  I  was  unable  to  please  him. 

Mary  Petrovna  put  down  the  medicine-glass  which  was 
in  her  hand  and  went  to  the  bed.  *'  Make  you  com- 
fortable ?"  she  said. 

"  Put  the  things  right.     That's  right — and  warm  now." 

He  watched  her  whilst  she  settled  the  bedclothes,  then 
closed  his  eyes,  and,  with  a  childishly  happy  expression 
on  his  worn  face,  dropped  asleep. 

"  Are  you  going  home  ?"  asked  Mary  Petrovna. 

"  No,  I  have  had  a  good  sleep  and  can  v/atch  now,  but 
if  I  am  not  wanted  I  will  go." 

"  No,  don't  go,  please.     Let  us  have  a  little  talk.     My 


COWARD  6i 

brother  is  in  his  room  all  the  time  with  his  books,  and  it 
is  so  bitter,  so  depressing,  to  sit  alone  with  the  patient 
whilst  he  is  sleeping  and  think  of  nothing  but  his  death." 

"You  must  be  strong,  Mary  Petrovna;  depressing 
thoughts  and  tears  are  strictly  forbidden  to  hospital 
nurses." 

"  And  I,  too,  will  not  cry  when  I  am  a  nurse.  Anyhow, 
it  will  not  be  so  hard  to  nurse  the  wounded  as  one  so 
near." 

"  Then  in  any  case  you  are  going  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  am  going.  Whether  he  recovers  or  dies 
I  am  going.  I  have  become  so  accustomed  to  the  idea 
now  that  I  cannot  give  it  up.  I  want  to  do  something 
good,  something  useful ;  I  want  to  be  able  to  remember 
good,  bright  days." 

"  Ah,  Mary  Petrovna,  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  see  much 
light  at  the  war." 

"  Why  ?  I  shall  work.  But  there  is  light  for  you.  I 
should  like  even  to  take  some  part  in  the  war." 

"  To  take  part  in  it !  But  surely,  does  it  not  inspire 
you  with  horror  ?     What  are  you  telling  me  ?" 

"  I  am  telling — who  told  you  that  I  love  war  ?  Only 
—how  shall  I  tell  you  ? — war — is  an  evil.  Both  you 
and  I  and  very  many  others  have  this  opinion.  But  it  is 
inevitable.  Whether  you  like  it  or  do  not  like  it  makes 
no  difference.  There  will  be  war,  and  if  you  do  not  go 
to  fight  they  will  take  someone  else,  and,  anyhow — 
mankind  will  be  mutilated  or  tortured  by  its  course.  I 
am  afraid  you  do  not  understand  me,  as  I  express  myself 
badly.  Listen  !  In  my  idea  war  is  a  common  sorrow,  a 
common  suffering,  and  to  avoid  it  is  perhaps  permissible, 
only  such  a  course  is  not  pleasing  to  me." 

I  kept  silence.  Mary  Petrovna's  words  very  clearly 
expressed  my  confused  aversion  to  avoid  the  war.  I 
myself  have  felt  what  she  feels  and  thinks,  only  I  have 
thought  differently. 

*'  You,"   she  continued,  **  it  seems,  are  all  the  time 


62  COWARD 

thinking  how  you  can  remain  here  if  they  call  you  up  for 
a  soldier.  My  brother  has  spoken  to  me  about  it.  You 
know  I  like  you  very  much,  and  think  you  a  nice  man, 
but  this  trait  in  your  character  distresses  me." 

"  What  is  to  be  done,  Mary  Petrovna  ?  Different 
views.  What  shall  I  reply  ?  Was  it  I  who  started  the 
war  ?" 

*'  Not  you,  or  any  of  those  who  have  died  at  it,  or  v/ill 
die.  They  also  would  not  have  gone  if  they  could  have 
avoided  it,  but  they  cannot,  and  you  can.  They  go  to 
fight  and  you  stay  in  St.  Petersburg,  alive,  sound,  and 
lucky,  only  because  you  have  friends  who  would  be  sorry 
to  send  someone  they  know  personally  to  the  war.  I  will 
not  take  upon  myself  to  judge — perhaps  it  is  excusable, 
but  I  repeat,  it  distresses  me." 

She  energetically  shook  her  curly  head  and  said  no 
more. 

•!•  *i*  •!•  I*  *p 

At  last  it  has  come.  To-day  I  put  on  a  grey  overcoat 
and  have  already  tasted  of  the  roots  of  military  training — 
the  manual.  At  the  present  moment  there  is  ringing  in 
my  ears — "  'Tion  !     Form  fours  !     Present  arms  !" 

And  I  stood  to  attention,  formed  fours,  and  flourished 
my  rifle.  And  after  a  short  time,  when  I  have  mastered 
the  intricacies  of  forming  fours,  they  will  tell  me  off  to  a 
draft,  place  us  in  railway  waggons,  transport  us,  and  dis- 
tribute us  amongst  the  regiments  to  fill  up  the  vacancies 
left  by  the  killed 

Well,  it  is  all  the  same.  It  is  all  over.  Now  I  do  not 
belong  to  myself.  I  shall  go  with  the  stream.  Now  it  is 
best  not  to  think  and  not  to  judge,  but  to  accept  without 
criticism  all  the  chances  of  life,  and  only  cry  out  when  in 
pain.  .  .  . 

They  have  quartered  me  in  a  wing  of  the  barracks 
specially  detailed  for  the  *'  privileged  "  class  recruits. 
This  wing  is  distinguished  in  having  beds  instead  of 
bunks   for   sleeping   accommodation,   nevertheless  it  is 


COWARD  63 

quite  sufficiently  dirty.  It  is  very  bad  amongst  the 
non-privileged  recruits.  They  live — until  told  off  to 
regiments — in  a  huge  shed  which  was  formerly  a  riding- 
school.  Two  rows  of  tents  have  been  fixed  up  in  it. 
Straw  has  been  carted  as  far  as  the  door,  and  the  rest  is 
left  to  the  temporary  inhabitants  to  fix  themselves  up 
as  best  they  may.  Along  the  passage  going  down  the 
middle  of  the  riding-school,  formed  by  the  two  rows  of 
tents,  the  snow  and  filth  brought  in  every  minute  from 
outside  by  persons  entering  has  mingled  with  the  straw, 
and  has  formed  an  indescribable  slush.  Even  on  either 
side  of  this  passage  the  straw  is  not  overclean.  Some 
hundreds  of  men  are  standing,  sitting,  or  lying  on  this 
straw  in  groups,  each  representing  some  village  contin- 
gent, the  whole  forming  a  veritable  ethnographical 
exhibition.  I  searched  for  representatives  from  my 
district.  The  tall,  awkward  "  little  Russians  "  in  new 
overcoats  and  caps  lay  in  a  huddled  group,  not  saying 
a  word.     There  were  ten  of  them. 

"  Good-day,  comrades." 

"  Good-day." 

"  Is  it  long  since  you  left  home  ?" 

**  Two  weeks.  And  who  are  you  ?"  asked  one  of  them 
of  me.  I  gave  him  my  name,  which  was  known  to  all 
of  them,  and  this  meeting  with  someone  from  their  part 
brightened  them  up  a  little,  and  they  became  more  com- 
municative. 

"  Lonely  ?"  I  asked. 

"  How  not  lonely  ?" 

*'  Where  are  you  going  ?" 

**  Who  knows  !     I  suppose  to  kill  the  Turk." 

"  And  do  you  want  to  go  to  the  war  ?" 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do  there  ?" 

I  began  to  question  them  about  our  local  town,  and 
these  recollections  of  home  loosened  their  tongues.  They 
commenced  to  tell  me  of  a  recent  wedding  for  which  a 
pair  of  bullocks  had  been  sold,  and  how  almost  directly 


64  COWARD 

afterwards  they  had  taken  the  young  husband  for  a 
soldier.  They  told  me  about  the  pristaff — the  devil 
stick  in  his  throat ! — the  lack  of  land,  and  how  in  con- 
sequence of  this  some  hundreds  had  decided  to  leave  the 
village  and  go  to  the  Amur.  .  .  .  The  conversation  was 
only  of  the  past,  no  one  referred  to  the  future,  to  those 
hard  times,  dangers,  and  sufferings  which  awaited  us  all. 
No  one  took  any  interest  in  the  Turks  or  Bulgars,  or 
troubled  himself  about  the  question  for  which  he  was 
perhaps  going  to  die. 

A  drunken  young  recruit  of  a  local  contingent,  passing 
us,  stopped  at  our  group,  and  when  I  again  began  to  talk 
of  the  war  authoritatively  said  : 

*'  This  Turk  must  be  wiped  out." 

"  Must  be  ?"  I  inquired,  smiling  involuntarily  at  the 
assurance  of  the  decision. 

"  Of  course,  Barin,  so  that  nothing  shall  remain  of 
the  unclean  brute.  Because  through  his  mutinying  how 
much  suffering  are  we  to  undergo  ?  Had  he,  for  instance, 
kept  quiet  and  behaved — I  should  be  at  home  now  with 
my  parents  and  in  a  better  state.  But  he  is  fractious,  and 
there  is  grief  for  us.  Be  assured  I  am  speaking  the  truth. 
Give  me  a  cigarette,  barin,  please."  And  he  suddenly 
stopped  short,  straightened  himself  in  front  of  me,  and 
put  his  hand  to  his  cap. 

I  gave  him  a  cigarette,  said  good-bye  to  my 
countrymen,  and  went  back  to  barracks,  as  my  leave 
was  up. 

"He  is  fractious,  and  there  is  grief  for  us,"  and  his 
drunken  voice  rang  in  my  ears.  Short  and  vague,  but  at 
the  same  time  it  covers  all  there  is  to  be  said. 

***** 

Heartsickness  and  depression  reign  at  the  Lvoffs. 
Kuzma  is  very  bad,  and  although  the  wound  is  clean,  has 
very  high  fever,  deUrium,  and  great  pain.  Both  brother 
and  sister  remain  with  him  all  the  time  I  am  engaged  in 
learning  my  work.     Now,  when  they  knov/  I  am  going 


COWARD  65 

to  the  war,  the  sister  has  grown  still  more  depressed,  and 
her  brother  still  more  surly. 

**  Already  in  uniform  ?"  he  had  muttered  when  I  said 
"  How  do  you  do  ?"  to  him  in    his  room,  littered  with 
books  and  reeking  of  smoke.     ''  Oh,  you  people  !" 
''  Why,  Vassili  Petrovich  ?" 

*'  Because  you  will  not  let  me  study — that's  why. 
And  as  there  is  no  time,  they  will  not  let  me  finish  my 
course,  but  will  send  me  to  the  war,  and  there  is  so 
much  I  cannot  learn,  and  then  there  are  you  and  Kuzma." 
'*  Well,  Kuzma  is  dying,  but  what  about  me  ?" 
"  And  are  you  not  going  to  die  ?  If  they  do  not  kill 
you,  you  will  go  out  of  your  mind,  or  put  a  bullet  through 
your  head.     I  know  you,  and  there  are  examples." 

**  What  examples  ?     Do  you  really  know  of  any  like 
that  ?     Tell  me,  Vassili  Petrovich  ?" 

"  Stop    talking.     Is    it   so   necessary    further    to   dis- 
llusionize  you  ?     It  is  bad  for  you.     I  know  nothing. 
I  was  only  talking." 

But  I  was  persistent,   and   then  he   told  me  of  the 
example  as  follows  : 

"  A  wounded  artillery  officer  told  me,"  he  commenced. 
"  They  had  only  just  left  Kishinieff,  in  April,  directly 
after  the  declaration  of  war.     The  rain  was  unceasing, 
and  the  roads  disappeared.     Only  a  sea  of  mud  remained 
into  which  the  guns  and  baggage- train  sank  up  to  the 
axles.     It  became  so  bad  that  the  horses  could  do  nothing, 
so  they  hitched  on  drag-ropes  with  which  the  men  pulled. 
The  second  half  of  the  road  was  awful.     We  had  twelve 
ridges  to  get  over  in  seventeen  versts,  and  the  whole 
distance  was  a  perfect  quagmire.     They  got  into  it  and 
stuck.     The  rain  lashed  them,  and  there  was  not  a  dry 
thread  on  any  of  them.     They  were  half  starving  and 
completely  worn  out,  but  it  was  necessary  to  drag  the 
guns  along.     Well,  of  course,  the  men  pulled  and  pulled 
until  they  fell  senseless,  face  downwards,  into  the  mud. 
Finally  it  was  impossible  to  move  ahead,  but  all  the  same 

5 


66  COWARD 

they  continued  to  toil.  It  was  awful,  said  the  officer  ; 
it  is  dreadful  to  think  of  it.  They  had  a  young  surgeon 
with  them,  a  nervous  fellow  who  wept,  and  exclaiming 
that  he  could  not  stand  such  a  sight,  said  he  would  go  on 
ahead,  which  he  did.  The  soldiers  cut  down  branches 
and  made  what  was  almost  a  raft,  and  finally  succeeded 
in  getting  out  of  the  bog.  They  dragged  the  battery 
on  to  the  mountain,  and  there  saw  the  surgeon  hanging 
on  a  tree.  There  is  the  example.  If  the  man  could  not 
stand  even  seeing  such  suffering,  how  will  you  be  able 
to  stand  it  ?" 

"  Vassili  Petrovich,  is  it  not  easier  to  bear  torture  than 
to  hang  oneself  like  the  surgeon  ?" 

"  Well,  I  do  not  know.  What  is  there  good  in  the  fact 
that  they  will  harness  you  to  a  shaft  ?" 

"  Conscience  will  not  prick  me,  Vassili  Petrovich." 

"  Well,  that  is  hair-splitting.  Talk  with  my  sister 
on  that  point — she  is  well  up  in  such  fine  distinctions." 
Saying  which  he  held  out  his  hand  and  smilingly  bade 
me  good-bye. 

"  Where  are  you  off  to  ?" 

''  To  the  hospital." 

I  went  into  Kuzma's  room.  He  was  not  asleep,  and, 
as  Mary  Petrovna  explained  to  me,  felt  better  than  usual. 
He  had  not  yet  seen  me  in  uniform,  and  my  appearance 
was  an  unpleasant  surprise  to  him. 

"  Will  they  leave  you  here  or  send  you  to  the  army  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  They  will  send  me  ;  surely  you  know  ?" 

He  was  silent. 

"  I  knew,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  *'  but  I  had  forgotten. 
I  cannot  remember  or  think  of  much  these  days.  Well, 
go  !     It  is  necessary." 

"  And  you,  Kuzma  Thomich,  say  this  !" 

"  Why  '  and  I '?  Is  it  not  true  what  I  say  ?  What 
services  have  you  rendered  that  you  should  be  exempted  ? 
Go  and  die  !    There  are  people  more  necessary  than  you, 


COWARD  67 

more  hard-working  than  you,  and  they  are  going.  .  .  . 
Put  my  pillow  right  .  .  .  that's  better." 

He  spoke  quietly  but  irritably,  as  if  blaming  someone 
for  his  illness. 

"  All  this  is  true,  Kuzma.  But  could  I  really  not  go  ? 
Could  I  really  protest  personally  on  my  own  behalf  ? 
If  so,  I  should  have  stayed  here  without  further  talk  ; 
it  would  not  be  difficult  to  arrange.  I  am  not  doing  this — 
they  want  me,  and  I  am  going.  But  at  least  they  cannot 
prevent  me  from  having  my  own  opinion  on  this  point." 

Kuzma  lay  motionless  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ceiling, 
as  if  he  had  not  heard  me.  Finally  he  slowly  turned  his 
head  towards  me. 

"Do  not  take  any  notice  of  my  words.  I  " — he  mur- 
mured— "  I  am  w^orn  out  and  irritable,  and  really  do  not 
know  why  I  tease  people.  I  have  already  grown  quarrel- 
some,    I  shall  soon  die  ;  it  is  time." 

"  Enough,  Kuzma ;  cheer  up.  The  wound  is  clean  and 
is  healing,  and  everything  is  going  on  well.  You  must 
not  talk  of  dying,  but  of  living  now." 

Mary  Petrovna  looked  at  me  with  her  large,  sorrowful 
eyes,  and  I  suddenly  remembered  how  she  had  said  to 
me  two  weeks  ago  :  "  No,  he  will  not  recover  ;  he  will  die. 

"  And  if  I  really  do  recover,  it  will  be  good,"  said 
Kuzma,  smiling  weakly.  "  They  will  send  you  to  fight, 
and  I,  with  Mary  Petrovna,  will  come — she  as  a  hospital 
nurse,  and  I  as  a  surgeon.  And  I  will  look  after  you 
when  you  are  wounded,  as  you  are  looking  after  me  now." 

**  You  will  chatter,  Kuzma,"  said  Mary  Petrovna. 
**  It  is  bad  for  you  to  talk  much,  and  it  is  time  to  begin 
tormenting  you." 

He  resigned  himself  to  us.  We  undressed  him,  took 
off  the  bandages,  and  commenced  work  on  his  huge  and 
lacerated  chest.  W^hen  I  directed  the  spray  of  water 
on  the  open  places  ;  on  the  collar-bone,  which  glistened 
like  mother-of-pearl ;  on  a  vein  which,  clean  and  free, 
ran  right  throughout  the  wound,  it  was  not  like  dressing 


68  COWARD 

a  living  person,  but  like  working  on  some  anatomical 
apparatus.  I  thought  of  other  wounds,  far  more  awful 
in  nature,  and  overwhelmingly  greater  in  numbers,  in- 
flicted, moreover,  not  by  blind,  unreasoning  chance,  but 
by  the  conscious  acts  of  human  beings. 

*  *  *  *  * 

I  am  not  wTiting  a  word  in  this  diary  of  all  that  is 
happening  at  home,  and  what  I  am  going  through  there. 
The  tears  with  which  my  mother  meets  me,  the  depressing 
silence  accompanying  my  presence  at  the  common  table, 
the  kindness  of  my  brothers  and  sisters — all  this  is  hard  to 
witness  and  feel,  but  to  write  of  it  is  harder  still.  When 
I  think  that  in  a  week's  time  I  must  say  good-bye  to  all 
that  is  dearest  in  the  world,  the  tears  rise  to  my  throat. 

*  *  *  *  -K- 

At  last  the  farewells.  To-morrow  morning,  as  soon  as 
it  is  light,  we  are  off  by  railway.  They  have  allowed 
me  to  spend  the  last  night  at  home,  and  I  am  sitting  in 
my  room  alone  for  the  last  time.  The  last  time  !  Does 
anyone  know  who  has  not  experienced  such  a  last  time 
the  whole  misery  of  these  two  words  ?  For  the  last  time 
the  family  have  separated,  for  the  last  time  I  have  come 
into  this  little  room,  and  am  sitting  at  the  table  lighted 
by  the  familiar  little  lamp  and  littered  with  books  and 
papers.  For  a  whole  month  I  have  not  touched  them. 
For  the  last  time  I  take  the  half-finished  work  into  my 
hands.  It  has  stopped  short  and  lies  dead,  incomplete, 
senseless.  Instead  of  finishing  it  I  am  going  with 
thousands  of  others  to  the  brink  of  the  world  because 
history  has  need  of  my  physical  strength.  As  for 
intellectual  forces — forget  about  them.  No  one  wants 
them.  Of  what  benefit  have  been  the  many  years  I 
have  studied  them  and  prepared  myself  to  apply  them  ? 
That  enormous  organization  of  which  I  know  nothing, 
but  of  which  I  form  a  part,  has  wished  to  cut  me  off 
and  hurl  me  aside.  And  what  can  /  do  against  such 
a  desire  ? 


COWARD  69 

However,  enough.  It  is  time  to  lie  down  and  try  to 
sleep.     To-morrow  I  must  get  up  very  early. 

*  -jf  *  ^  * 

I  begged  that  no  one  should  come  to  the  station.  But 
when  I  was  already  sitting  in  the  waggon  crammed  full 
of  men,  I  felt  such  a  heart-pinching  solitude  and  so  home- 
sick, that  I  would  have  given  all  the  world  to  pass,  if 
only  a  few  minutes,  with  any  one  of  my  near  relatives. 
Eventually  the  appointed  hour  arrived,  but  the  train  did 
not  start.  Something  was  delaying  it.  Half  an  hour 
went  past,  an  hour,  an  hour  and  a  half,  and  still  we  did 
not  move.  In  this  one  and  a  half  hours  I  could  have 
gone  home.  .  .  .  Perhaps,  after  all,  someone  will  not  be 
able  to  resist  coming  down.  .  .  .  No,  they  all  imagine 
that  the  train  has  already  gone.  No  one  will  think  of  it 
being  late  in  starting.  But  still,  perhaps  .  .  .  and  I  gaze 
anxiously  in  the  direction  whence  they  might  come. 
Never  has  time  dragged  so. 

The  harsh  notes  of  the  bugle  sounding  the  "  assembly  " 
made  me  shiver.  Soldiers  who  had  climbed  out  of  the 
waggons  and  had  crowded  on  to  the  platforms,  hurriedly 
scrambled  into  their  places.  The  train  will  be  off  in  a 
minute,  and  I  shall  have  seen  no  one.  Then  I  catch 
sight  of  the  Lvoffs.  Brother  and  sister  almost  ran  to  the 
waggon,  and  I  v/as  madly  glad  to  see  them.  I  do  not 
remember  what  I  said  to  them,  and  do  not  remember 
what  they  said  to  me,  except  one  sentence — "  Kuzma 
is  dead  !" 

*  *  *  *  * 

This  sentence  ends  the  notes  in  my  diary. 

Under  a  lowering  sky  lies  a  broad  snow-covered  field 
surrounded  by  white  hills,  on  which  are  trees,  also  white 
with  frost,  although  there  is  a  touch  of  thaw  in  the  air. 
Above  the  rattle  of  musketry  comes  the  frequent  boom 
of  guns.  One  of  the  hills  is  almost  enveloped  in  smoke, 
through  which,  as  it  slowly  rolls  down  on  to  the  field 
below,  can  be  seen  a  dark,  moving  mass.     Looking  more 


70  COWARD 

attentively,  it  is  seen  that  this  mass  is  composed  of  little 
black  spots.  Many  of  these  spots  are  already  motionless, 
but  others  are  ever  moving  forward,  although  their  goal, 
indicated  only  by  the  extra  density  of  the  smoke,  is  still 
far  away,  and  although  their  numbers  become  less  every 
second. 

A  battalion  in  reserve,  lying  in  the  snow  with  rifles  in 
hand,  is  following  the  progress  of  this  dark  mass  with  its 
thousand  eyes. 

"  They  have  started  ! — ours  have  started  up  !" 

"  But  will  they  get  there  ?  Why  do  they  keep  us  here  ? 
With  our  help  they  would  quickly  settle  matters." 

"  Tired  of  life,  are  you  ?"  said  an  elderly  soldier  surlily. 
"  Lie  still  and  thank  God  you  are  whole." 

"  Yes,  old  man,  and  I  shall  stay  whole,  don't  make  any 
mistake  about  that,"  replied  a  young  soldier  with  a  cheery 
face.     "  I  have  already  been  in  four  fights,  and  nothing 

happened.     Only  at  first  it  is  frightening,  but  then 

But  the  Barin — it  is  his  first  time  ;  he  will  be  probably 
asking  God's  pardon.     Barin  !     Barin  !" 

"  What  is  it  ?"  replied  a  lanky,  black-bearded  man 
lying  close  by. 

"  You,  Barin,  cheer  up  !" 

"  I,  my  friend,  am  all  right." 

"  You,  Barin,  will  be  near  me  in  case  ...  I  know, 
I  have  already  been  in  it.  Yes,  our  Barin  is  brave  ; 
he  will  not  run  away.  But  there  was  a  volunteer  before 
you  who,  as  soon  as  we  started,  and  directly  the  bullets 
began  to  fly,  chucked  away  his  knapsack  and  rifle,  and 
bolted  ;  but  a  bullet  caught  him  up — hit  him  in  the  back. 
That  sort  of  thing  is  forbidden  because  of  the  oath." 

"  Don't  you  be  alarmed.  I  shall  not  run  away," 
quietly  replied  the  Barin.  "  You  cannot  g^t  away 
from  a  bullet." 

"No,  the  rascal,"  answered  the  young  soldier.  "  Is 
it  known  where  to  get  away  from  it  ?  .  .  .  Holy  !  .  .  . 
Surely  ours  have  not  stopped  !" 


COWARD  71 

The  black  mass  had  stopped,  and  were  being  enveloped 
in  the  smoke  from  their  rifles. 

"  Well,  they  have  begun  to  fire.  That  means  in  a 
minute  or  two  they  will  commence  retiring.  .  .  .  No! 
they  have  gone  ahead  again.  Save  !  .  .  .  Blessed  Mother, 
again  .  .  .  and  again.  ...  How  they  are  falling,  and  no 
one  to  pick  them  up  !" 

*'  A  bullet !  a  bullet !"  exclaimed  several  around,  as 
something  whistled  through  the  air.  It  was  a  chance 
bullet  v/hich  had  passed  over  the  reserves.  It  was  followed 
by  another,  then  a  third.     The  battalion  began  to  stir. 

"  Stretcher-bearers  !"  someone  cried. 

The  stray  bullet  had  done  its  work.  Four  soldiers  with 
a  stretcher  ran  forward  towards  the  wounded  man. 
Suddenly  little  figures  of  men  and  horses  appeared  on 
one  of  the  hills  on  the  flank  of  the  attack,  and  at  the  same 
moment  a  puff  of  smoke,  white  as  snow,  showed  up. 

"  They  are  firing  at  us,  the  blackguards  !"  cried  the 
cheery  young  soldier.  There  was  the  scream  of  a  shell 
followed  by  a  report.  The  youngster  threw  himself  face 
down  into  the  snow.  When  he  raised  his  head  he  saw 
that  the  Barin  was  lying  stretched  out  alongside  him, 
his  arms  thrown  out,  with  his  head  doubled  unnaturally 
under  his  chest.  Another  stray  bullet  had  struck  him 
under  the  right  eye,  making  a  large  black  hole. 


THE  MEETING 

A  BROAD,  trembling  silvery  band  of  moonlight  stretched 
away  for  tens    of    versts.     The    remaining    expanse    of 
the  sea  was  black,  and  the  regular  dull  noise  of  the  waves 
as  they  broke  and  rolled  along  the  sandy  shore  reached 
the  person  standing  on  the  cliff  high  above.     Even  more 
black  than  the  sea  itself  were  the  gently  rocking  silhouettes 
of    the  vessels    in    the   roadstead.      One    huge   steamer 
("  Probably  English,"  reflected  Vassili  Petrovich),  within 
this  bright  strip  of  moonlight,  was  noisily  blowing  off 
steam  in  a  series  of  small  clouds,  which  dissolved  as  they 
lightly  rose  into  the  air.     A  moist,   brine-laden  breeze 
was  coming  from  the  sea.     Vassili  Petrovich,  who  had 
seen  nothing  of  this  kind  previously,  gazed  rapturously 
at  the  sea,  the  moonlit  strip,  the  steamers  and  sailing 
vessels,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  with  a  feeling  of 
pleasure  inhaled  the  sea  air.     He  long  gave  himself  up 
to  the  delights  of  this  new  sensation,  turning  his  back 
on  the  town  to  which  he  had  only  this  day  come,  and  in 
which  he  was  to  spend  many,  many  years.     Behind  him 
a  heterogeneous  crowd  were  promenading  along  the  boule- 
vard, whence  could  be  heard  scraps  of  Russian  and  other 
languages,  the  decorous,  subdued  conversation  of  local 
dignitaries  mingling  with   the   chatter   of  young  girls, 
and  the  loud,  merry  voices  of  grown-up  schoolboys,  as 
they  strolled  past  together  in  knots  of  twos  and  threes. 
A  burst  of  laughter  from  one  of  these  groups  made  Vassili 

72 


THE  MEETING  73 

Petrovich  turn  round.  As  it  passed  him,  one  of  the  youths 
was  saying  something  to  a  young  girl,  whilst  his  comrades 
noisily  interrupted  his  passionate  and  apparently  apolo- 
getic speech. 

"  Don't  believe  him,  Nina  Petrovna  !  It  is  all  lies  ! 
He  is  making  it  up  !" 

"  But  truly,  Nina  Petrovna,  I  am  not  in  the  least  to 
blame." 

'*  If  you,  Shevyreft,  ever  again  dream  of  deceiving 
me  .  .  ."  said  the  girl  stiffly,  in  a  quiet  young  voice. 

Vassili  Petrovich  lost  the  rest  of  the  sentence  as  the 
speakers  passed  out  of  hearing.  But  a  second  later  a 
further  burst  of  laughter  resounded  in  the  darkness. 

**  This  is  the  field  of  my  future  labours,  in  which,  as 
the  '  modest  ploughman,  I  shall  work,'  "  mused  Vassiii 
Petrovich,  first  because  he  had  been  appointed  teacher 
in  the  local  gymnasium,  and  secondly,  because  he  was 
fond  of  figurative  forms  of  thought,  even  when  not 
expressed  aloud. 

"  Yes,  I  must  perforce  toil  in  this  modest  field,'*  he 
reflected,  sitting  down  on  a  bench  with  his  face  to  the 
sea.  "  Where  are  the  dreams  of  a  professorship,  of  being 
a  publicist,  of  a  great  name  ?  You  haven't  it  in  you, 
friend  Vassili  Petrovich,  to  carry  out  all  these  fine  plans. 
We'll  try  w^ork  here." 

And  beautiful  and  pleasant  thoughts  passed  through 
the  brain  of  the  new  school-teacher.  He  thought  of  how 
he  w^ould  discover  the  "  spark  divine "  in  the  boys. 
How  he  would  help  those  natures  **  striving  to  divest 
themselves  of  the  chains  of  darkness."  How,  finally, 
his  pupils  in  due  course  would  become  men  of  note.  .  .  . 
In  his  imagination  he  even  pictured  himself,  Vassili 
Petrovich,  sitting,  an  old,  grey-haired  teacher,  in  his 
modest  lodging,  and  being  visited  by  his  former  scholars — 
one  a  professor  of  such  and  such  a  University,  a  man  of 
renown  in  Russia  and  in  Europe  ;  another,  an  author, 
a  well-known  novelist ;  a  third,  a  statesman  also  famous — 


74  THE  MEETING 

all  of  them  treating  him  with  respect.  "It  is  the  good 
seed  sown  by  you,  dear  sir,  when  I  was  a  boy,  that  has 
made  me  the  man  I  am,"  the  statesman  would  say  to 
Vassili  Petrovich,  warmly  pressing  the  hand  of  his  old 
tutor. 

However,  Vassili  Petrovich  did  not  long  occupy  himself 
with  such  exalted  reflections.     His  thoughts  soon  turned 
to   matters   directly    concerning   his    present    situation. 
He  drew  a  new  pocket-book  from  his  pocket,  and  counting 
over  his  money,  commenced  to  calculate  as  to  how  much 
would  remain  after  pa5mient  of  all  necessary  expenses. 
*'  What  a  pity  I  was  so  extravagant  en  route !"  thought,  he. 
"  Lodgings  .  .  .  we'll  say  tv/enty  roubles  a  month,  board, 
washing,  tea,  tobacco. ...     I  shall  save  a  thousand  roubles 
in  six  months,  anyhow.    I  am  sure  to  be  able  to  get  lessons 
here  at  four,  or  even  five,  roubles  each.  ..."     A  feeling 
of  satisfaction  took  him,  and  he  became  possessed  of  a 
desire  to  feel  in  his  pocket  where  two  letters  of  recom- 
mendation to  local  **  big-wigs  "  lay,  and  for  the  twentieth 
time  to  read  their  addresses.     He  pulled  out  the  letters, 
carefully  unfolded  the  paper  in  which  they  were  wrapped, 
but  was  unable  to  read  the  addresses  as  the  moonlight 
was  not   bright    enough   to  admit  of  such  satisfaction. 
A  photograph  v/as  wrapped  up  v/ith  the  letters.     Vassili 
Petrovich  turned  it  straight  to  the  light  of  the  moon, 
and   endeavoured   to  look  at  the  well-known  features. 
"  Oh,  my  darling  Lise  !"  he  murmured  almost  out  loud, 
and  sighed,  not  without  a  feeling  of  pleasure.     Lisa  was 
his  fiancee,   whom  he  had   left   behind   in   Petersburg, 
waiting  until  Vassili  Petrovich  should  accumulate  the 
thousand  roubles  which  the  young  couple  deemed  neces- 
sary before  setting  up  house. 

Heaving  a  sigh,  he  hid  the  photograph  and  letters  in  the 
left  side-pocket  of  his  coat,  and  commenced  to  dream  of 
his  future  married  life.  And  these  dreams  were  even  more 
pleasurable  than  those  about  the  statesman  who  was  to 
come  and  thank  him  for  the  good  seed  sown  in  his  heart. 


THE  MEETING  75 

The  sea  fumed  far  away  below  him  and  the  wind  became 
fresher.  The  English  steamer  had  disappeared  from  the 
strip  of  moonlight  which  was  shining  with  a  brilliancy 
melting  into  a  thousand  shimmering  soft  lights,  and 
stretching  far  away  over  a  seemingly  endless  expanse  of 
water.  Vassili  Petrovich  was  loath  to  rise  from  his  seat, 
to  tear  himself  away  from  this  picture  and  to  return 
to  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  the  little  room  in  the  hotel 
at  which  he  was  stopping.  However,  it  was  now  late,  so 
he  got  up  and  went  along  the  boulevard. 

A  gentleman  in  a  light  suit  of  greyish  alpaca  and  a 
straw  hat  v/ith  a  muslin  pugaree  (the  summer  costume 
of  the  local  beaux),  rose  from  a  bench  as  Vassili  Petrovich 
passed,  and  said  : 

"  Can  you  give  me  a  light  7" 

"  With  pleasure,"  replied  Vassili  Petrovich. 

The  red  glow  of  the  flame  lit  up  a  familiar  face. 

**  Nicolai,  my  good  chap.     Is  it  you  ?" 

"  Vassili  Petrovich  ?" 

"  The  same.  .  .  .  Ah,  how  glad  I  am  !  I  never  thought 
of  this,  never  dreamt  of  it  !"  said  Vassili  Petrovich, 
embracing  his  friend  heartily.  '*  What  fate  has  brought 
you  here  V 

"  That's  simply  explained — my  work.     And  you  ?" 

"  I  have  been  sent  here  as  teacher  in  the  gymnasium. 
I  have  only  just  arrived." 

**  Where  are  you  staying  ?  If  at  an  hotel,  come  along 
with  me.  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  You  can  scarcely  have 
any  acquaintances  here  ?  Come  with  me,  we  will  have 
some  supper  and  talk  over  old  times." 

"  Yes,  let  us,"  assented  Vassili  Petrovich.  **  I  shall 
be  delighted.  I  came  here  as  if  into  a  wilderness — and 
suddenly  this  happy  meeting.     *  Izvoschik  !'  "  he  called. 

"  Don't ;  there  is  no  need  to  call  an  izvoschik,"  said 
Vassili's  friend,  as  he  in  turn  called  out  "  Sergei,"  and 
a  smartly  turned  out  koliaska  drove  up  to  the  kerb. 
The  friend   jumped  in,  but  Vassili  Petrovich   remained 


76  THE  MEETING 

standing  on  the  pavement,  and  looked  with  bewilderment 
at  the  carriage,  the  black  horses,  and  the  portly  coach- 
man. 

"  Kudriasheff,  are  the  horses  yours  ?" 

"  Mine,  mine.     What  ?     You  didn't  expect  it  ?" 

"  Wonderful.  .  .  .     Can  it  be  you  ?" 

"  Well,  who  else  if  not  me  ?  But  get  in,  and  we  will 
talk  afterwards." 

Vassili  Petrovich  got  in,  sat  himself  by  the  side  of 
Kudriasheff,  and  the  koliaska  rolled  over  the  cobbles. 
Vassili  Petrovich,  as  he  sat  comfortably  on  the  soft 
cushions,  smiled.  "What  does  it  mean?"  he  thought. 
"  Not  long  ago  Kudriasheff  was  the  poorest  of  students, 
and  now — a  koliaska !"  Kudriasheff,  stretching  out 
his  legs,  placed  them  on  the  seat  opposite,  said  nothing, 
but  smoked  his  cigar.  In  five  minutes*  time  the  carriage 
stopped. 

"  Well,  friend,  we  have  arrived.  I  will  show  you  my 
humble  abode,"  said  Kudriasheff,  stepping  down  and 
helping  Vassili  Petrovich  to  get  out  of  the  carriage. 

Before  entering  his  "  humble  abode,"  the  guest  cast  a 
glance  at  it.  The  moon  was  behind  it,  and  did  not  light 
it  up,  so  that  he  was  only  able  to  note  that  the  "  abode  " 
was  a  one-storied  building  with  some  ten  or  twelve  large 
windows.  A  portico  with  spiral  columns  picked  out 
with  gold  hung  over  a  heavy  wooden  door,  in  which  was 
inserted  a  looking-glass.  The  handle  was  of  bronze  in 
the  form  of  a  bird's  claw,  which  held  an  irregularly  shaped 
piece  of  crystal.  And  a  shining  brass  plate,  bearing  the 
o\\ner's  name,  was  affixed  to  the  door. 

"  Your  *  humble  abode,'  Kudriasheff  !  It  is  a  palace," 
said  Vassili  Petrovich,  as  they  entered  the  hall  with  its 
oak  furniture  and  polished  black  fireplace.  '*  Is  it  really 
your  own  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear  chap,  I  haven't  got  to  that  yet.  I 
rent  it.  It  is  not  expensive — one  thousand  five  hundred 
roubles." 


THE  MEETING  'j^ 

''  One  thousand  five  hundred  roubles  !"  gasped  Vassili 
Petrovich. 

"  It  is  better  to  pay  one  thousand  five  hundred  roubles 
than  to  spend  capital  which  will  give  far  higher  interest 
if  not  converted  into  real  estate.  Yes,  and  it  means  a 
lot  of  money  if  you  really  build,  not  like  this  trash." 

"  Trash  !"  exclaimed  Vassili  Petrovich  perplexedly. 

"  Yes,  the  house  is  nothing  grand.  But  come 
along.  ..." 

Vassili  Petrovich  hurriedly  took  off  his  overcoat  and 
followed  his  host.  The  general  style  in  which  the  house 
was  furnished  gave  him  fresh  food  for  amazement.  A 
whole  series  of  lofty  rooms  with  parquet  floors  and  ex- 
pensive wall-papers  with  patterns  of  gold.  The  dining- 
room  was  furnished  in  oak  with  crude  models  of  birds 
hanging  on  the  wall,  an  enormous  carved  sideboard, 
and  a  large  round  dining-table,  which  was  flooded  with 
light  thrown  from  a  hanging  bronze  lamp  ornamented 
with  a  dead  white  shade.  In  the  lounge  there  was  a 
grand  piano,  a  quantity  of  furniture  of  all  kinds — sofas, 
stools,  chairs,  etc.  Expensive  prints  and  villainous 
oleographs  hung  on  the  walls  in  gilded  frames.  The 
drawing-room  had  the  customary  silk  upholstered  furni- 
ture, and  was  crowded  with  numberless  unnecessary 
things.  It  gave  the  impression  that  the  owner  had 
suddenly  become  wealthy — had  won  two  hundred  or 
three  hundred  thousand  roubles, — and  had  hurriedly 
furnished  his  house  on  a  lavish  scale.  All  had  been 
purchased  at  one  time,  and  purchased  not  because  it  was 
wanted,  but  because  the  money  was  burning  his  pocket, 
and  found  an  outlet  in  the  purchase  of  a  grand  piano, 
on  which,  so  far  as  Vassili  Petrovich  knew,  Kudriasheff 
could  only  play  with  one  finger;  of  the  horrible  old  painting 
to  which  probably  none  paid  the  slightest  attention — ■ 
one  of  the  tens  of  thousands  which  are  attributed  to  some 
second-class  Flemish  master  ;  of  chessmen  of  Chinese 
work,  so  fine  and  ethereal  that  it  was  impossible  to  play 


78  THE  MEETING 

with  them,  and  on  the  heads  of  each  of  which  were 
carved  three  balls,  and  of  scores  of  other  unnecessary 
articles. 

The  friends  went  into  the  study.  Here  it  was  more 
comfortable.  A  large  writing-table,  equipped  with  various 
bronze  and  china  knick-knacks,  and  littered  with  papers, 
plans,  and  drawing  implements,  occupied  the  middle  of 
the  room.  Huge  coloured  plans  and  geographical  charts 
hung  on  the  walls,  and  below  them  stood  two  low  Turkish 
divans  with  silk  cushions.  Kudriasheff,  taking  Vassili 
Petrovich  by  the  waist,  led  him  straight  to  a  divan,  and 
sat  him  on  the  soft  pillows. 

"  Well,  I  am  very  glad  to  meet  an  old  comrade," 
said  he. 

**  And  I  also.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  what — to  arrive  here 
as  if  in  a  wilderness,  and  suddenly  to  meet  ...  Do  you 
know,  Nicolai  Constantinovich,  meeting  you  has  so  stirred 
my  mind,  has  raised  so  many  recollections  ..." 

"  Of  what  ?" 

'*  How  of  what  ?  Of  our  student  days,  of  the  time 
when  we  lived  so  well,  if  not  in  a  material  sense,  at  least 
morally  speaking.  .  .  .     Do  you  remember  ..." 

"  Remember  what  ?  How  you  and  I  used  to  devour 
sausages  made  of  dog  ?  Enough,  my  friend  ;  it  bores  me. 
Will  you  have  a  cigar  ?  *  Regalia  Imperiala,'  or  some 
such  name — I  forget  what.  I  only  know  that  they  cost 
a  poltinik  each." 

Vassili  Petrovich  took  one  of  the  proffered  treasures, 
took  a  penknife  out  of  his  pocket,  cut  the  end  off,  lit  the 
cigar,  and  said  : 

*'  Nicolai  Constantinovich,  I  feel  absolutely  in  a  dream. 
A  few  years — and  you  have  got  to  such  a  position  !" 

"  What  position  ?     It's  worth  nothing." 

"  But  why  ?     How  much  do  you  get  ?" 

"  What  ?     Salary  ?" 

"  Yes,  pay." 

"  As  engineer  and  Provincial  Secretary  Kudriasheff  {2nd) 


THE  MEETING  79^ 

I  receive  a  salary  of  one  thousand  six  hundred  roubles  a 
year." 

Vassili  Petrovich's  eyes  dilated. 

"  But  how  ...     Where  does  all  this  come  from  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  friend,  what  simplicity  !  Where  ?  Out  of 
water  and  earth,  sea  and  dry  land.  But  chiefly  from 
here." 

And  he  tapped  his  forehead  with  his  finger. 

'*  Do  you  see  those  drawings  hanging  on  the  walls  ?" 

*'  I  see  them,"  replied  Vassili  Petrovich,  "  and " 

*'  Do  you  know  what  they  are  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't,"  and  Vassili  Petrovich  got  up  from  the 
divan  and  went  up  to  the  wall.  The  blue,  red,  brown 
and  black  shades  conveyed  nothing  to  him,  any  more 
than  the  mysterious  figures  above  the  fine  lines,  drawn 
in  red  ink. 

"  Plans,  of  course  they  are  plans  ;  but  of  what  ?" 

"  Really,  I  don't  know." 

"  These  plans  represent,  my  very  dear  Vassili  Petro- 
vich, a  future  mole.     Do  you  know  what  a  mole  is  ?" 

"  Well,  of  course.  You  must  remember  I  am  a  teacher 
of  the  Russian  language.  A  mole  is — well,  a  dam.   What  ?" 

**  Precisely,  a  dam.  A  dam  for  the  formation  of  an 
artificial  harbour.  On  these  drawings  is  the  plan  of  the 
mole  which  we  are  now  constructing.  You  saw  the  sea 
from  above  where  you  were  standing  ?" 

*'  Certainly.  A  wonderful  picture  !  But  I  did  not 
notice  any  kind  of  construction." 

"  It  is  difficult  to  notice  it,"  said  Kudriasheff,  laughing. 
*'  Scarcely  any  of  this  mole,  Vassili  Petrovich,  is  in  the 
sea.     It  is  almost  all  here  on  dry  land." 

"  Where  ?" 

"  Where,  here  in  this  house,  and  at  the  houses  of  the 
other  engineers — Knobloch,  Puitsikovsky,  etc.  This  is, 
of  course,  between  ourselves.  I  am  talking  to  you  as  an 
old  friend.  Why  are  you  staring  at  me  in  that  way  ? 
It  is  a  common  occurrence." 


8o  THE  MEETING 

*'  But  really,  this  is  awful  !  Surely  you  are  not  telling 
the  truth  ?  Are  you  really  not  above  such  unclean 
methods  for  obtaining  this  comfort  ?  Has  the  past  only 
resulted  in  bringing  you  to  this  .  .  .  this  ?  And  you  talk 
quite  calmly  of  this  ..." 

"  Stop,  stop,  Vassili  Petrovich  !  No  strong  words,  if 
you  please.  You  talk  of  *  dishonourable  methods '? 
Tell  me  first  what  is  meant  by  honourable  and  dis- 
honourable. I  myself  do  not  know.  Perhaps  I  have 
forgotten,  but  I  didn't  try  to  remember,  and  it  seems 
to  me  you  yourself  do  not  remember,  only  pretend  you 
do.  But  let  us  drop  the  subject.  First  of  all,  it  is  not 
polite.  Respect  freedom  of  judgment.  You  talk  of — 
dishonour.  Talk  if  you  like,  but  don't  swear  at  me. 
I  do  not  swear  at  you  because  your  opinions  differ  from 
mine.  The  whole  matter,  my  dear  friend,  lies  in  the  view, 
the  point  of  view,  and  as  there  are  many  points  of  view, 
let  us  drop  this  matter  and  go  to  the  dining-room,  where 
we  will  have  some  '  vodka,*  and  talk  on  pleasanter  sub- 
jects." 

**  But,  Nicolai,  Nicolai,  it  hurts  me  to  look  at  you." 

*'  Well,  let  it  hurt  as  much  as  you  like.  Let  it  hurt. 
It  will  pass  away.  You  will  grow  accustomed  to  it.  You 
will  look  at  it  and  will  say,  *  What  a  simpleton  I  am !' 
Yes,  you  will  say  it,  remember  my  words  !  Come  along, 
let  us  go  and  have  a  drink  and  forget  about  erring  engineers. 
That's  why  a  man  has  brains,  in  order  to  go  astray.  .  .  . 
Well,  my  dear  tutor,  how  much  are  you  going  to 
get  ?" 

''  It  is  all  the  same  to  you." 

"  Well,  for  instance  ?" 

"  Well,  I  earn  three  thousand  roubles  with  private 
lessons." 

"  There  you  are  !  For  a  paltry  three  thousand  to  drag 
out  your  whole  life  in  giving  lessons  !  And  I  sit  here  and 
look  around.  If  I  wish — I  drink.  If  I  don't  wish,  I 
don't.     If  the  fancy  came  into  my  head  to  spit  at  the 


THE  MEETING  8i 

ceiling  all  day  long,  I  could  afford  to  do  it.     And  money — 
so  much  money  that  it — *  is  dross  for  us.'  " 

When  they  went  into  the  dining-room,  they  found 
everything  ready  for  supper.  The  cold  roast  beef  looked 
like  a  rosy  mountain.  There  were  pots  of  jam  displaying 
a  variety  of  English  names  and  labels.  A  whole  row  of 
bottles  raised  their  heads  from  the  table.  The  friends 
drank  a  wineglass  or  so  of  vodka  each,  and  consumed 
their  supper.  Kudriasheff  ate  slowly  and  with  relish. 
He  was  absolutely  absorbed  in  his  occupation. 

Vassili  Petrovich  ate  and  thought,  thought  and  ate. 
He  v/as  greatly  perplexed,  and  could  not  make  up  his 
mind  what  to  do.  Acting  on  his  principles,  he  ought 
at  once  to  leave  his  old  friend's  house  and  never  look 
at  it  again.  "  All  this  is  really  stolen,"  he  reflected, 
as  he  placed  a  piece  of  meat  in  his  mouth,  and  sipped  the 
wine  poured  out  by  his  host ;  "  and  is  it  not  disgraceful 
of  me  to  be  here  eating  and  drinking  it  ?"  Many  such 
thoughts  passed  through  the  brain  of  the  poor  teacher, 
but  they  remained  thoughts,  and  behind  them  hid  a 
certain  secret  voice  which  annexed  each  thought  by 
"  Well,  and  what  then  ?"  and  Vassili  Petrovich  felt  that 
he  was  not  able  to  decide  this  question,  and  remained 
seated.  "  Well,  I  will  watch,"  flashed  through  his  brain 
in  self-justification,  followed  by  a  sense  of  confusion 
mingled  with  shame.  **  Why  should  I  observe  ?  Am 
I  a  writer  or  what  ?" 

"  Ah,  what  meat  !"  commenced  Kudriasheff.  '*  Take 
note  of  it ;  you  will  not  get  anything  like  it  throughout 
the  town."  And  he  related  to  Vassili  Petrovich  a  long 
story  of  how  he  had  dined  at  Knoblochs',  and  had  been 
astonished  by  the  beef  there,  and  how  he  had  found  out 
where  it  could  be  got,  and  had  eventually  succeeded  in 
getting  it.  ''  You  have  come  just  in  the  nick  of  time," 
he  said,  by  way  of  conclusion  of  his  story  about  the 
meat.  "  Have  you  ever  eaten  anything  approach- 
ing it  ?" 

6 


82  THE  MEETING 

"  It  is  certainly  excellent  beef,"  replied  Vassili  Petro- 
vich. 

"  Magnificent,  my  dear  chap  !  I  like  everything  to 
be  as  it  ought  to  be.  But  why  aren't  you  drinking  ? 
Wait  a  moment,  I  will  pour  you  out  some  wine." 

An  equally  long  story  of  the  wine  followed,  in  which 
there  figured  an  English  ship's  captain,  a  commercial 
house  in  London,  and  the  same  Knobloch  and  the  Customs. 
As  he  talked  about  his  wine,  Kudriasheff  drank  it,  and 
as  he  drank  he  became  more  excited.  Bright  spots 
appeared  on  his  pallid  cheeks,  and  his  speech  became 
more  rapid  and  vehement. 

*'  But  why  are  you  so  silent  ?"  asked  he  of  Vassili 
Petrovich,  who,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  had  preserved  a 
stubborn  silence  whilst  listening  to  the  panegyrics  on 
meat,  wine,  cheese,  and  the  other  delicacies  adorning  the 
engineer's  table. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  don't  want  to  talk." 

''Not  want  to  ?  Bosh  !  I  see  you  are  still  thinking 
about  my  confession.  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry,  I  told  you 
anything  about  it.  We  should  have  supped  together 
with  the  greatest  satisfaction  but  for  this  infernal  dam.  .  . . 
Better  not  to  think  about  it,  Vassili  Petrovich — put  it 
aside  ...  eh  ?  Vassenka,  have  done  with  it !  What  is 
to  be  done,  old  chap  ?  I  have  not  realized  your  hopes. 
Life  is  not  a  school.  Yes,  and  I  don't  know  whether  you 
will  stick  to  your  path  long." 

"  I  beg  you  not  to  make  conjectures  about  me,"  said 
Vassili  Petrovich. 

"  Offended  ?  .  .  .  Of  course,  you  won't  stick  to  it. 
What  has  your  disinterestedness  given  you  ?  Are  you 
really  contented  now  ?  Do  you  really  never  think  every 
day  as  to  whether  your  acts  are  in  keeping  with  your 
ideals,  and  are  you  not  convinced  every  day  that  they 
are  not  ?   Am  I  not  right,  eh  ?    But  drink,  it  is  good  wine." 

He  poured  himself  out  a  glassful,  held  it  up  to  the  light, 
sipped  it,  smacked  his  lips,  and  drank  it. 


THE  MEETING  83 

"  Look  here,  my  dear  friend,  do  you  think  that  I  do 
not  know  what  you  are  thinking  of  at  the  present  moment  ? 
I  know  exactly.  '  Why/  you  are  thinking,  '  am  I  sitting 
here  with  this  man  ?  Is  he  necessary  to  me  ?  Can  I 
really  not  get  on  without  his  wine  and  cigars  ?'  Listen — 
listen,  let  me  finish.  I  do  not  for  one  moment  imagine 
that  you  are  sitting  here  only  for  my  wine  and  cigars. 
Not  at  all.  Even  if  you  were  in  great  need  of  them,  you 
would  not  sponge  on  me.  Sponging  is  a  very  burdensome 
thing.  You  are  sitting  here  and  talking  with  me  simply 
because  you  cannot  make  up  your  mind  as  to  whether 
or  not  I  am  really  a  criminal.  Do  I  not  disturb  you, 
and  that's  all  ?  Of  course,  it  is  very  offensive  to  you, 
because  you  have  certain  convictions  divided  up  under 
various  headings  in  your  head,  and  under  them,  I,  your 
former  comrade  and  friend,  appear  a  scoundrel.  At  the 
same  time  you.  cannot  feel  any  hostility  towards  me. 
Convictions  are  convictions,  but  I  by  myself  am  your 
comrade,  and  I  may  even  say  a  good  chap.  You  know 
yourself  that  I  am  incapable  of  offending  anyone.  ..." 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Kudriasheff.  Where  have  you  got 
all  this  from  ?  You  yourself  say  it  is  not  yours."  Vassili 
Petrovich  waved  his  hand.  "  The  person  from  whom 
you  have  stolen  is  the  offended  party." 

"It  is  easy  to  talk  about  the  person  from  whom  I 
have  stolen.  I  think,  and  think,  as  to  whom  I  have 
offended,  but  I  cannot  understand  whom.  You  do  not 
understand  how  this  business  is  arranged.  I  will  tell 
you,  and  then  perhaps  you  will  agree  with  me,  that  it  is 
not  so  easy  to  find  the  offended  party." 

Kudriasheff  rang,  and  the  stolid  figure  of  a  man-servant 
appeared. 

*'  Ivan  Pavlich,  bring  me  the  drawing  out  of  the 
study.  It  is  hanging  between  the  windows.  You  will 
see,  Vassili  Petrovich,  what  a  gigantic  business  it  is.  I 
really  have  even  begun  to  find  poetry  in  it." 

Ivan   Pavlich   carefully   brought    an   enormous  sheet 


84  THE  MEETING 

gummed  on  calico.  Kudriasheff  took  it,  pushed  away 
the  plates,  bottles,  and  glasses  near  him,  and  spread  out 
his  drawing  on  the  tablecloth,  stained  in  places  with  red 
wine. 

**  Look  here,"  he  said.  **  This  is  a  sectional  draw- 
ing of  our  mole,  and  this  is  a  longitudinal  section.  Do 
you  see  the  part  painted  blue  ?  That  is  the  sea.  The 
depth  here  is  so  great  that  it  is  impossible  to  build  up  from 
the  bottom,  so  we  are  first  of  all  preparing  a  bed  for  the 
mole." 

"  A  bed  ?"  asked  Vassili  Petrovich.  "  What  a  strange 
name  !" 

'*  A  stone  bed  of  enormous  blocks  of  stone,  each  of  which 
is  not  less  than  one  cubic  foot  in  size."  Kudriasheff 
detached  from  his  watch-chain  a  pair  of  miniature  silver 
compasses,  and  took  a  little  line  by  them  on  the  drawing. 
'*  See,  Vassili  Petrovich,  this  is  a  sajene.  If  we  measure 
the  bed  transversely,  it  will  show  a  width  of  not  less  than 
fifty  sajenes.  Not  what  you  would  call  a  narrow  bed, 
eh  ?  A  mass  of  stone  of  this  width  is  being  raised  from 
the  bottom  of  the  sea  to  within  sixteen  feet  of  the  surface. 
If  you  picture  to  yourself  the  width  of  this  bed  and  its 
enormous  length,  you  will  get  some  idea  of  the  size  of 
this  mass  of  stone.  Sometimes,  do  you  know,  for  a  whole 
day  barge  after  barge  will  come  to  the  mole  and  throw 
out  its  load,  but  when  you  measure,  the  increase  is 
infinitesimal.  The  stones  just  seem  to  fall  into  a  bottom- 
less pit.  .  .  .  The  bed  is  painted  here  on  the  plan  a  dirty 
grey  colour.  They  are  making  progress  with  it,  but  from 
the  shore  other  work  is  already  commencing  on  it.  Steam 
cranes  are  lowering  on  to  this  bed  huge  artificial  stones, 
cubic-shaped  blocks  made  of  cobbles  and  cement,  each 
of  which  is  a  cubic  sajene  in  size,  and  weighs  many 
hundreds  of  poods.  The  crane  raises  them,  turns,  and 
places  them  in  rows.  It  is  a  strange  sensation  when  you 
realize  that  with  a  slight  pressure  of  the  hand  you  can 
make  this  mass  rise  and  lower  at  will.    When  such  a  mass 


THE  MEETING  85 

obeys  you,  you  are  conscious  of  the  might  of  man.  .  .  . 
Do  you  see — here  they  are,  these  cubes."  He  pointed 
them  out  with  the  compasses.  *'  They  will  be  laid  almost 
up  to  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  then  the  upper  stone 
layer  of  hewn  stone  will  be  placed  on  them.  So  you  see 
what  sort  of  work  it  is.  Second  to  no  Egyptian  Pyramid. 
These  are  the  general  features  of  the  work,  which  has 
already  lasted  some  years.  How  much  longer,  goodness 
only  knows.  The  longer  the  better  ...  at  the  same 
time,  if  it  proceeds  at  its  present  rate  it  will  last  out  our 
century.'* 

*'  Well,  and  Vv'hat  else  ?"  asked  Vassili  Petrovich 
after  a  long  silence. 

"  What  else  ?  Well,  we  sit  in  our  places  and  get  as 
much  as  is  necessary." 

**  But  I  still  do  not  see  from  your  story  how  you  get 
what  money  you  want." 

"  You  innocent  !  Listen  !  By  the  way,  we  are,  I 
think,  of  the  same  age.  Only  the  experience  which  you 
lack  has  made  me  wiser — has  made  me  older.  This  is 
how  it  is  :  You  know  that  on  every  sea  there  are  storms  ? 
They  do  their  work.  Every  year  they  wash  away  the 
beds,  and  we  lay  down  a  new^  one." 

*'  But,  still,  I  don't  understand  how  ..." 

"  We  lay  it  down,"  calmly  continued  Kudriasheff, 
*'  on  paper,  here  on  the  drawing,  because  it  is  only  on  the 
drawing  that  the  storms  wash  it  away." 

Vassili  Petrovich  was  completely  bewildered. 

"  Because,  waves  cannot,  in  fact,  wash  away  a  bed  only 
eight  feet  high.  Our  sea  is  not  an  ocean,  and  even  in  an 
ocean  such  moles  as  ours  would  stand.  But  with  us  in 
the  two  thousand  sajenes  depth,  where  the  bed  ends, 
it  is  almost  a  dead  calm.  Listen,  Vassili  Petrovich,  how 
the  thing  is  managed.  In  the  spring,  after  the  bad  weather 
of  the  autumn  and  winter,  we  meet,  and  put  the  question, 
How  much  of  the  bed  has  been  washed  away  this  year  ? 
We  take  the  drawings  and  note.     Well,  then,  we  wTite, 


86  THE  MEETING 

'Washed   away — let  us  say,  by  storms — so  many  cubic 

sajenes  of  work.'     And  they  reply,  *  Build  and  d n 

you  !'     Well,  we  '  repair.'  " 

'*  But  what  do  you  repair  ?" 

"  Our  pockets,  of  course,"  said  Kudriasheff,  laughing 
at  his  joke. 

"  No,  no,  this  cannot  be ;  it  is  impossible  !"  cried 
Vassili  Petrovich,  jumping  up  from  his  chair  and  running 
up  and  down  the  room.  "  Listen,  Kudriasheff,  you  are 
ruining  yourself  .  .  .  not  to  mention  the  immorality  of 
it.  .  .  .  I  simply  want  to  say  that  they  will  catch  you  all 
in  this,  and  you  will  be  done  for — will  go  to  Siberia. 
Alas  !  what  hopes  !  expectations  !  A  capable,  honourable 
young  man — and  suddenly  ..." 

Vassili  Petrovich  launched  out  into  heroics,  and  spoke 
long  and  fervently.  But  Kudriasheff  quite  calmly 
smoked  a  cigar  and  watched  his  excited  friend. 

"  Yes,  you  are  sure  to  go  to  Siberia,"  said  Vassili 
Petrovich,  as  he  concluded  his  harangue. 

*'  It  is  a  long  way  to  Siberia,  my  friend.  You  are  an 
extraordinary  man  ;  you  don't  understand  in  the  least. 
Am  I  really  the  only  one  who  ...  to  put  it  more  politely 
...  *  acquires '  ?  All  around,  even  the  air  seems  to  pilfer. 
Not  long  ago  a  fresh  hand  appeared  and  began  to  write 
about  honesty.  What  happened  ?  We  protected  our- 
selves. .  .  .  And  always  will  protect  ourselves.  All  for 
one,  one  for  all.  Do  you  imagine  that  man  is  his  own 
enemy  ?  Who  will  take  upon  himself  to  touch  me  when 
through  me  he  himself  may  come  to  grief  ?" 

"  It  means  that  everyone  is  guilty,  as  Kryloff  said." 

"  Guilty,  guilty  !  All  take  what  they  can  from  life 
and  do  not  regard  it  platonically.  .  .  .  But  about  what 
did  we  begin  to  talk  ?  Ah  yes,  of  about  whom  I  am 
insulting  ?  Tell  me  whom  ?  The  lower  class  ?  Well, 
how  ?  I  don't  take  straight  from  the  source,  but  I  take 
what  is  ready  and  what  has  already  been  taken,  and  if 
I  don't  take  it  somebody  worse  than  I  will  take  it.     At 


THE  MEETING  Sy 

any  rate,  I  don't  live  like  a  brute  beast.  I  take  some 
interest  in  intellectual  matters.  I  subscribe  to  a  whole 
bundle  of  papers  and  magazines.  They  cry  out  about 
science  and  civilization,  but  to  what  could  it  be  applied 
if  it  were  not  for  persons  like  us,  people  with  means  ? 
And  who  would  furnish  science  with  the  power  to  advance 
if  not  people  with  means  ?  And  means  must  be  found 
somewhere,  even  in  a  so-called  honest  ..." 

"  Oh,  don't  finish,  don't  say  that  last  word,  Nicolai 
Const  an  tinovich . ' ' 

"  Word  ?  What  ?  Would  it  be  better  for  your  warped 
mind  if  I  commenced  to  lie  to  justify  myself  ?  We  rob, 
do  you  hear  ?  Yes,  if  the  truth  were  spoken,  you  are  now 
robbing." 

"  Listen,  Kudriasheff  ..." 

"It  is  no  use  my  listening,"  replied  Kudriasheff  with 
a  laugh.  "  You,  too,  my  friend  are  a  robber,  under  a 
mask  of  virtue.  What  is  your  occupation — teaching  ? 
Will  you  really  repay  with  your  labour  even  the  pittance 
which  will  be  paid  you  ?  Will  you  turn  out  even  one 
respectable  man  ?  Three-fourths  of  your  pupils  will 
become  such  as  I  am,  and  one-fourth  like  yourself — that 
is,  a  well-intentioned  *  faineant.*  Are  you  not  taking 
money  for  nothing  ?  Answer  me  frankly.  And  are  you 
so  far  apart  from  me  ?  Yet  you  put  on  airs  and  preach 
honour  !" 

"  Kudriasheff,  believe  me,  that  this  conversation  is 
extremely  painful  to  me." 

*'  And  to  me — not  in  the  least." 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  find  v/hat  I  have  found  in  you." 

"  That's  stupid.  People  change,  and  I  have  changed, 
but  in  what  direction — you  could  not  guess.  You  are 
not  a  prophet." 

"  It  is  not  necessary  to  be  a  prophet  to  hope  that  an 
honourable  youth  will  become  an  honourable  citizen  of 
the  State." 

"  Bah !    drop   it  !     Don't   use   such   words   with   me. 


88  THE  MEETING 

'  An  honourable  citizen !'  Out  of  what  school-books 
have  you  dug  up  this  archaism  ?  It  is  time  to  finish 
with  sentimentalism  ;  you  are  not  a  boy.  ...     Do  you 

know  what  Vasia "   And  here  Kudriasheff  took  Vassili 

Petrovich  by  the  arm.  "  Let  us  be  friends  and  drop  this 
infernal  subject.  Better  to  drink  to  our  comradeship. 
Ivan  Pavlich,  bring  another  bottle  of  this." 

Ivan  Pavlich  slovv^ly  appeared  with  a  fresh  bottle. 
Kudriasheff  filled  the  glasses. 

"  Well,  we  will  drink  to  prosperity  ...  of  what  ? 
Well,  it's  all  the  same  for  your  and  my  prosperity." 

"  I  drink,"  said  Vassili  Petrovich  with  feeling,  "  that 
you  may  come  to  your  senses.  That  is  my  strongest 
wish." 

"  Be  a  good  chap  and  don't  talk  about  that.  ...  If  I 
come  to  my  senses,  it  will  be  impossible  to  drink ;  then 
things  will  be  in  a  bad  way.  Do  you  see  what  your  logic 
amounts  to  ?  Let  us  drink  just  simply  without  any 
toasts.  Let  us  drop  this  boring  argument.  It  is  all  the 
same,  we  shall  not  come  to  any  agreement.  You  will  not 
put  me  on  the  true  path,  and  I  shall  not  convince  you. 
It  is  not  worth  it.     You  will  come  round  to  my  views." 

"  Never  !"  exclaimed  Vassili  Petrovich  with  warmth, 
banging  his  glass  on  the  table. 

"  Well,  we'll  see.  But  why  have  I  told  you  all  about 
myself,  and  you  have  said  nothing  about  yourself  ? 
What  have  you  been  doing,  and  what  are  your  plans  ?" 

"  I  have  already  told  you  I  have  been  appointed 
teacher." 

"  Is  this  your  first  place  ?" 

"  Yes,  before  this  I  used  to  give  private  lessons." 
"  And  do  you  intend  to  give  them  here  ?" 
"  If  I  can  find  any.     Why  ?" 

*'  We  will  find  some,  my  dear  chap  ;  we  will  find  some," 
and  Kudriasheff  slapped  Vassili  Petrovich  on  the  shoulder. 
"  We  will  hand  over  all  the  local  youth  to  you.  How 
much  did  you  charge  an  hour  in  Petersburg  ?" 


THE  MEETING  89 

'*  Very  little.  It  was  very  difficult  to  get  good  lessons. 
About  two  roubles,  not  more." 

**  And  for  such  pittance  a  human  being  wears  himself 
out !  Well,  here,  don't  you  dare  to  ask  less  than  five 
roubles.  It  is  hard  work.  I  remember  how  I  used  to 
run  after  extra  work  during  my  first  and  second  years. 
At  the  University  there  were  times  when  I  was  glad  to  get 
fifty  kopecks  an  hour.  A  most  thankless  and  difficult 
work.  I  will  introduce  you  to  all  our  friends.  There 
are  some  very  nice  families  here,  and  young  ladies.  If  you 
behave  cleverly,  I  will  get  you  engaged  if  you  like.  Eh, 
Vassili  Petrovich  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"  What,  engaged  already  ?     Really  ?" 

Vassili  Petrovich' s  face  betrayed  his  confusion. 

"  Yes,  I  see  it  by  your  eyes.  Well,  old  chap,  I  con- 
gratulate you.  How  soon  ?  But  Vasia  !  Ivan  Pavlich  \" 
shouted  Kudriasheff. 

Ivan  Pavlich  appeared  at  the  door  with  a  surly  expres- 
sion on  his  sleepy  face. 

*'  Bring  some  champagne  !" 

"  There  is  none — all  drunk,"  replied  the  man  morosely. 

"  Don't  bother,  Kudriasheff.     Why  all  this  ?" 

"  Silence,  I  am  not  asking  you.  Do  you  want  to  insult 
me,  or  what  ?  Ivan  Pavlich,  don't  come  back  without 
the  champagne,  do  you  hear  ?     Be  off  !" 

*'  But  everything  is  closed,  Nicolai  Constantino vich." 

*'  Don't  argue  with  me.  You  have  the  money.  Be 
off  and  get  some." 

The  butler  went  off  muttering  something  to  himself. 

*'  The  sulky  beast  is  still  grumbling.  And  you,  too, 
with  your  '  Don't  bother.'  If  we  are  not  to  drink  on  such 
an  occasion  as  this,  what  does  champagne  exist  for  ?  .  ,  . 
Well,  who  is  she  ?" 

"  W^ho  ?" 

"  Who,  why  she,  your  fiancee.  .  .  .  Pauper,  heiress, 
nice  ?" 


90  THE  MEETING 

"  It's  all  the  same  to  you — you  don't  know  her,  so  why 
tell  you  her  name  ?  She  has  no  money,  and  beauty — 
that  is  a  matter  of  taste.     In  my  opinion  she  is  beautiful." 

"  Have  you  a  photograph  ?"  asked  Kudriasheff. 
"  Bring  it  out.  Do  you  carry  it  next  to  your  heart  ? 
Show  it  me  ?" 

And  he  stretched  out  his  hand. 

Vassili  Petrovich's  face,  flushed  from  the  wine,  became 
still  redder.  Not  knowing  why,  he  unbuttoned  his  coat, 
took  out  his  pocket-book  and  the  precious  photograph. 
Kudriasheff  seized  it  and  began  to  examine  it. 

"  Not  so  bad,  my  dear  chap.  You  know  a  good  thing 
when  you  see  it." 

*'  Cannot  you  talk  without  using  those  expressions  ?" 
said  Vassili  Petrovich  curtly.  "  Give  it  me  back.  I  will 
put  it  away." 

"  Wait  a  bit.  Let  me  enjoy  it.  I  wish  you  all  luck 
and  prosperity.  Well,  take  it  and  put  it  back  against 
your  heart.  Oh,  you  wonder,  marvel !"  exclaimed 
Kudriasheff,  laughing. 

"  I  don't  understand  what  you  have  found  laughable 
in  this  ?" 

"  Well,  my  dear  chap,  it  is  funny.  I  can  picture  to 
myself  what  you  will  be  like  in  ten  years'  time  :  you  in  a 
dressing-gown,  a  wife,  seven  children,  and  no  money  with 
which  to  buy  them  shoes,  breeches,  hats,  etc.  Prosaic. 
Will  you,  then,  carry  this  photograph  about  in  your 
breast-pocket  ?     Ha,  ha,  ha  !" 

**  It  would  be  more  to  the  point  if  you  will  inform  me 
what  poetry  awaits  you  in  the  future  ?  Get  money  and 
spend  it  ?     Eat,  drink,  and  sleep  ?" 

"  Not  to  eat,  drink,  and  sleep,  but  to  live.  Live  with 
a  consciousness  of  one's  freedom,  and  even  a  certain 
power." 

*'  Power  ?     What  power  have  you  got  ?" 

**  There  is  power  in  money,  and  I  have  money.  I  do 
what  I  like.  ...     If  I  wish  to  buy  you — I  shall  buy  you." 


THE  MEETING  91 

"  Kudriasheff !  .  .  ." 

*'  Don't  get  on  the  high  horse  about  nothing.     Surely 
old  friends  may  joke  with  each  other  ?     Of  course,   I 
shall  not  try  to  buy  you.     Live  your  own  way  as  you  like. 
All  the  same,  I  do  what  I  wish.     Oh,  what  a  fool,  an  idiot, 
I  am  !"  suddenly  exclaimed  Kudriasheff,  hitting  his  fore- 
head.    "  Here  we  are,  and  have  been  sitting  for  I  don't 
know  how  long,  and  I  haven't  shown  you  the  sight.     You 
talk  about  eating,  drinking,  and  sleeping.     I  will  show 
you  something  in  a  minute  which  will  make  you  take 
back  your  words.     Come  along.     Bring  a  candle." 
"  Where  ?"  asked  Vassili  Petrovich. 
"  Follow  me.     You  will  see  where." 
Vassili  Petrovich,  as  he  rose  from  the  table,  felt  that 
all  was  not  as  it  should  be.     His  legs  were  not  altogether 
obedient,  and  he  could  not  hold  the  candlestick  without 
dropping  candle-grease  on  the  carpet.     However,  obtain- 
ing some  sort  of  control  over  his  recalcitrant  limbs,  he 
followed    behind     Kudriasheff.      They    passed    through 
several  rooms  along  a  narrow  passage,  and  appeared  in  a 
damp  and  dark  compartment.     Their  footsteps  resounded 
dully  on  the  stone  floor.     The  noise  of  falling  water  some- 
where sounded  in  never-ceasing  accord.     Stalactites  of 
dark  blue  glass  hung  from  the  ceiling.     Artificial  rocks 
rose  here  and  there  half  covered  by  masses  of  tropical 
foliage  and  panes  of  glass  glistened  darkly  in  certain  places. 
"  What  is  this  ?"  asked  Vassili  Petrovich. 
"  An  aquarium  to  which  I  have  devoted  two  years  of 
time  and  much  money.     Wait  a  moment,  and  I  will  light 
it  up." 

Kudriasheff  disappeared  behind  some  foliage,  and 
Vassili  Petrovich  went  up  to  one  of  the  panes  of  glass  and 
commenced  to  examine  what  Vv-as  behind  it.  The  feeble 
light  of  the  candle  could  not  penetrate  far  into  the  water, 
but  the  fish,  large  and  small,  attracted  by  the  bright  light, 
collected  in  the  part  which  was  lighted  up,  and  gazed 
stupidly   at   Vassili   Petrovich   with   their   round   eyes, 


93  THE  MEETING 

opening  and  shutting  their  mouths,   and  moving  their 
gills  and  fins. 

Farther  off  there  loomed  up  the  dark  outlines  of  seaweed, 
amongst  which  some  kind  of  reptile  was  moving,  although 
Vassili  Petrovich  could  not  discern  its  precise  form. 

Suddenly    a   flood    of   blinding   light    compelled   him 
mom.entarily  to  close  his  eyes,  and  when  he  again  opened 
them,  he  did  not  recognize  the  aquarium.     Kudriasheff 
had  turned  on  electric  light  in  two  places.     The  light  from 
the  lamps  penetrated  the  mass  of  blue  water,  swarming 
with  fish  and  other  live  creatures,  and  filled  with  growth 
which  showed  up  boldly  against   the  undefined   back- 
ground in  silhouettes  of  blood-red,  brown,  and  dark  green. 
The  rocks  and  tropical  growth,  made  still  darker  by 
contrast,  prettily  framed  the  thick  glass  through  which 
a  view  of  the  inside  of  the  aquarium  was  opened  up. 
In    the    aquarium    all  was    a    seething,  hurrying    mass, 
alarmed  by  the  dazzling  light.     A  whole  shoal  of  small 
but  big-headed  chub  rushed  hither  and  thither,  turning 
as    if   by   word    of   command,    sterlets   wriggled    about 
with  their  noses  stuck  to  the  glass,  now  rising  to  the 
surface,  now  sinking  to  the  bottom  of  the  water  just  as 
if  they  wished  to  break  through  the  transparent  but  hard 
obstacle.     A   smooth   black    eel    buried   himself   in   the 
sand  at  the  bottom  of  the  aquarium,  raising  a  whole 
cloud  of  mud.     A  ridiculous  stumpy  cuttle-fish  detached 
himself  from  the  rock  on  which  he  was  resting,  and  swam 
jerkily  backwards  across  the  aquarium,  dragging  his  long 
feelers  behind  him.    Altogether  it  was  so  pretty  and  so  new 
to  Vassili  Petrovich,  that  he  was  entranced. 

"  Well,  Vassili  Petrovich,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?" 
asked  Kudriasheff,  coming  out  to  him. 

"  Marvellous  !  Extraordinary  !  How  did  you  arrange 
all  this  ?     What  taste  and  effect !" 

"  Add  also  knowledge.  I  went  to  Berlin  expressly  to 
examine  the  aquarium  there,  and,  without  boasting,  I  will 
say  that  mine,  although,  of  course,  it  is  not  so  big,  is  not 


THE  MEETING  93 

in  any  way  inferior  in  point  of  beauty  and  interest.  .  .  . 
This  aquarium  is  my  pride  and  consolation.  However 
bored,  it  is  only  necessary  to  come  here,  and  I  can  sit 
and  gaze  by  the  hour.  I  like  all  these  fish,  etc.,  because 
they  are  frank,  and  not  like  our  friend  man.  They  go 
for  each  other  without  the  least  shame.  Look,  look  ! 
Do  you  see  ?     A  chase  !" 

A  small  fish  was  impetuously  rushing  now  to  the  surface, 
then  to  the  bottom,  and  in  every  direction  trying  to  escape 
from  some  long  marauder.  In  its  mortal  terror  it  kept 
jumping  out  of  the  water  into  the  air,  or  trying  to  conceal 
itself  in  the  recesses  of  the  rocks,  but  keen  teeth  were 
chasing  it  from  all  sides.  The  pirate  was  just  on  the  point 
of  seizing  his  quarry,  when  suddenly  another  robber 
darted  in  from  the  side,  made  a  grab,  and  the  little  fish 
disappeared  in  its  jaws.  The  pursuer  stopped  perplexed, 
and  the  robber  hid  itself  in  a  dark  corner. 

"Snatched  away,"  said  Kudriasheff.  "Idiot!  got 
nothing.  Was  it  worth  chasing  simply  for  the  booty  to 
be  taken  from  under  your  very  nose  ?  .  .  .  If  only  you 
knew  how  they  feed  on  these  little  fish  :  to-day  a  whole 
shoal  is  put  in,  and  by  to-morrow  it  has  disappeared,  gone 
— eaten  up.  They  eat  each  other  and  never  dream  about 
immorality  ;  but  we  ?  I  have  only  just  got  rid  of  this 
fiddle-faddle,  Vassili  Petrovich.  Don't  you  really  in  the 
end  agree  that  it  is  all  fiddle-faddle  ?" 

"  What  is  ?"  inquired  Vassili  Petrovich,  not  taking  his 
eyes  off  the  water. 

"  Why,  these  gnawings.  What  are  they  for  ?  Your 
conscience  may  prick  you,  but  still  .  .  .  Well,  I  have  got 
rid  of  them  now,  and  I  try  to  imitate  these  creatures." 

He  pointed  with  his  finger  to  the  aquarium. 

"  Do  as  you  like,"  said  Vassili  Petrovich  with  a  sigh. 
"  Listen,  Kudriasheff.  Surely  all  this  growth,  all  these 
fish — it  is  all  salt-water  life." 

"  Yes,  and  the  water  is  sea-water.  I  have  laid  down  a 
pipe  on  purpose." 


94  THE  MEETING 

"  What,  from  the  sea  ?  But  all  this  must  cost  an 
enormous  lot  ?" 

"  Yes.  My  aquarium  costs  about  thirty  thousand 
roubles." 

"  Thirty  thousand  !"  exclaimed  Vassili  Petrovich  in  a 
horrified  tone.  "  With  a  salary  of  one  thousand  six 
hundred  roubles  a  year  ?" 

"  Oh,  drop  this  honour  !  If  you  have  looked  at  it 
we  will  go  back.  Ivan  Pavlich  by  now  should  have 
brought  the  required  .  .  .  Only  wait  a  moment  whilst  I 
switch  off  the  light." 

The  aquarium  again  became  plunged  in  gloom.  The 
still  burning  candle  appeared  a  dull,  smoky  little  light 
to  Vassili  Petrovich. 

When  they  reached  the  dining-room,  Ivan  Pavlich  was 
waiting,  and  holding  a  bottle  wrapped  in  a  serviette  in 
readiness. 


VI 
A  NIGHT 


A  WATCH  lying  on  the  writing-table  was  hurriedly,  and 
with  wearying  repetition,  singing  two  notes.  It  was 
difficult  even  for  a  quick  ear  to  distinguish  between  the 
two  sounds,  but  to  the  owner  of  the  watch,  the  wretched 
man  sitting  near  this  table,  the  ticking  of  the  watch 
seemed  a  whole  song. 

"It  is  a  joyless  and  disconsolate  song,"  said  he  to 
himself.  "It  is  the  song  of  time  itself,  and  it  is  being 
sung  apparently  for  my  benefit.  It  is  for  my  edification 
that  it  is  singing  with  such  surprising  monotony.  Three, 
four,  ten  years  ago  the  watch  ticked  as  now,  and  in  ten 
years'  time  will  be  ticking  in  just  the  same  manner  .  .  . 
exactly  as  now." 

He  threw  a  troubled  glance  at  the  watch,  but  imme- 
diately turned  his  eyes  back  to  where  he  had  been  vacantly 
gazing. 

"  To  the  time  of  its  ticking  all  life  with  its  seeming 
variety  is  passing — its  sorrows,  joys,  heart-breakings, 
and  triumphs,  hate  and  love.  And  only  now,  at  night, 
when  all  and  everything  in  this  huge  town  and  this  huge 
house  is  asleep,  and  when  there  are  no  sounds  other  than 
the  beating  of  my  heart  and  the  ticking  of  the  watch — 
only  now  I  perceive  that  all  these  sorrows,  joys,  and 
triumphs  which  go  to  make  up  life — all  are  unrealities, 
for  some  of  which  I  have  striven,  and  from  others  have 

95 


96  A  NIGHT 

fled  without,  in  either  case,  knowing  why.  I  did  not 
know  then  that  life  holds  only  one  reality — time.  Time 
marching  forward,  passionless,  pitiless,  not  halting  where 
hapless  man,  living  by  minutes,  would  fain  dvvell,  and 
not  increasing  its  pace  by  one  iota,  even  when  reality 
is  so  grievous  that  it  is  desirable  to  make  it  a  past  dream  ; 
time — conscious  only  of  one  refrain — that  v/hicli  I  hear 
now  with  such  painful  clearness." 

Thus  thought  this  miserable  man  whilst  the  watch 
ticked  on,  maliciously  repeating  the  eternal  song  of  time, 
a  song  fraught  with  many  memories  for  him. 

**  Truly  it  is  strange  !  I  know  that  a  certain  scent, 
subject  of  conversation,  or  striking  refrain  v;ill  recall 
to  memory  a  whole  picture  of  the  long,  long  past.  I 
remember  I  was  with  a  dying  man,  when  an  Italian 
organ-grinder  stopped  before  the  open  window,  and  at 
the  ver}^  moment  the  sick  man  v/as  uttering  his  last  dis- 
jointed words,  and  with  bowed  head  was  breathing  in 
hoarse  agony,  there  rang  out  an  air  from  '  Martha,' 
and  ever  since,  when  I  chance  to  hear  this  air — and  I 
sometimes  hear  it:  trivialities  die  hard — there  imme- 
diately rises  before  my  eyes  a  rumpled  pillow,  and  on  it 
a  pale  face.  Whenever  I  see  a  funeral,  the  air  which  the 
little  organ  played  immediately  rings  in  my  ears. 
Horrible  !  .  .  .  But  all  this  is  *  a  propos  '  of  what  ?  I 
began  to  think.  Ah  !  I  know — why  should  a  watch,  the 
sound  of  which,  it  would  seem,  should  have  long  ago 
become  familiar,  remind  me  of  so  much  ? — all  my  life  ! 

Do  you  remember,  remember,  remember  ?'  I  re- 
member !  Too  well !  I  even  remember  what  it  would 
be  better  not  to  remember.  From  these  memories  my 
face  becomes  distorted,  my  fist  clenches  and  strikes  the 
table  a  furious  blow.  .  .  .  Ah,  now  !  that  blow  deadened 
the  song  of  the  watch,  and  for  a  moment  I  do  not  hear  it ; 
but  only  for  one  moment,  after  which  it  again  resounds 
insolently,  evilly,  and  persistently. 

**  *  Do    you  remember,  remember,   remember  ?'   .   .   . 


A  NIGHT 


97 


Oh  yes,  I  remember  !  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  recall 
it.  All  my  life  I  It  is  all  in  front  of  me.  Is  there  any- 
thing in  it  of  which  to  be  proud  ?" 

He  shouted  this  aloud  in  a  hoarse,  choking  voice.  He 
imagined  he  saw  before  him  all  his  life.  He  recalled  a 
series  of  ugly  and  sombre  pictures  in  which  he  was  the 
principal  figure.  He  recalled  all  that  was  worst  in  his 
life,  turned  it  all  over  in  his  mind,  but  failed  to  find  one 
clean  or  bright  spot  in  it,  and  was  convinced  that  none 
remained.  "Not  only  none  remained,  but  had  never 
existed,"  he  added  in  self-correction. 

A  weak,  timid  voice  from  some  remote  corner  of  his 
soul  murmured  :  "  Enough  ;  did  it  really  never  exist  ?" 

He  did  not  hear  this  voice — or,  at  least,  made  pretence 
that  he  had  not  heard  it,  and  continued  to  pull  himself 
to  pieces. 

'*  I  have  thoroughly  overhauled  my  memory,  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  I  am  right — there  is  nothing  to  stand 
on,  no  footing  whence  to  make  the  first  step  forward. 
Forward  ! — -whither  ?  I  do  not  know,  only  out  of  this 
vicious  circle. 

"  There  is  no  support  in  the  past,  because  all  is  false, 
all  is  deception.  I  have  lied,  and  deceived,  and  deluded 
even  myself.  Just  as  a  swindler  borrows  money  right 
and  left,  deceiving  people  with  fictitious  stories  of  his 
wealth — of  wealth  he  has  never  received,  but  neverthe- 
less declares  to  exist — so  I  all  my  life  have  lied  to  myself. 
Now  the  day  of  reckoning  has  arrived,  and  I  am  bankrupt 
— a  fraudulent  bankrupt." 

He  dwelt  on  these  words  with  a  perverted  sense  of 
enjoyment.  He  appeared  to  be  almost  proud  of  them. 
He  did  not  perceive  that  in  designating  his  whole  life 
a  fraud,  and  in  besmearing  himself,  he  was  telling  lies 
at  that  very  moment — the  worst  possible  description  of 
lie  —  a  self -lie,  because  he  did  not  in  reality  place  any- 
thing like  so  low  an  estimate  on  himself.  Had  anyone 
charged  him  with  even  a  tenth  part  of  what  he  had  accused 

7 


98  A  NIGHT 

himself  of  during  that  long  evening,  his  face  would  have 
flushed,  but  not  with  the  flush  of  shame  and  recognition 
of  the  truth  of  such  reproaches,  but  with  the  flush  of  anger. 
He  would  have  known  how  to  answer  the  offender  v/ho 
had  touched  the  pride  which  he  was  himself  nov/  appar- 
ently trampling  on  so  pitilessly. 

Was  he  himself  ? 

He  had  arrived  at  such  a  state  that  he  could  not  even  say 
of  himself,  "  I  am  myself."  In  his  soul  voices  were  speak- 
ing. They  were  speaking  differently,  and  which  of  these 
voices  was  his  own,  his  "  ego,"  he  himself  could  not  tell. 
The  first  voice,  full  and  clear,  flayed  him  with  well- 
defined,  even  eloquent,  phrases.  The  second  voice,  vague 
but  quarrelsome  and  persistent,  sometimes  drowned  the 
first :  "  Why  condemn  yourself  ?"  it  said.  "  Better 
deceive  yourself  to  the  end ;  deceive  all.  Make  yourself 
out  to  others  what  you  are  not,  and  all  will  be  well." 
There  was  yet  a  third  voice — that  voice  which  had  said  : 
"  Enough  ;  did  it  really  never  exist  ?"  But  this  voice 
spoke  timidly,  and  was  scarcely  audible.  Moreover,  he 
did  not  attempt  to  hear  it. 

"  Deceive  all.  .  .  .  Make  yourself  out  what  you  are 
not " 

**  But,  surely,  have  I  not  endeavoured  to  do  this  all  my 
life  ?  Have  I  not  deceived  others  ?  Have  I  not  played 
this  farcical  role  ?  And  has  it  really  turned  out  well  ? 
It  has  resulted  in  my  failure  as  an  actor.  Even  now  I 
am  not  what  I  am  in  reality.  But  do  I  really  know  what 
I  actually  am  ?  I  am  too  much  confused  to  know. 
But  never  mind,  I  have  felt  for  some  hours  that  I  have 
broken  down,  and  am  uttering  words  which  I  do  not 
myself  believe,  even  now,  when  on  the  threshhold  of 
death." 

*'  Surely  I  am  not  really  face  to  face  with  death  ? 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes  !"  he  shouted,  viciously  driving  each 
word  home  with  his  fist  against  the  table.  '*  It  is  neces- 
sary once  and  for  all  to  get  out  of  this  tangle.     The  knot 


A  NIGHT 


99 


is  tied.  It  cannot  be  unloosed ;  it  must  be  cut.  Only 
why  prolong  matters  and  lacerate  my  soul  already  torn 
to  tatters  ?  Why,  when  once  I  have  decided,  do  I  sit 
like  a  statue  from  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  until 
now  ?" 

And  he  hastily  commenced  to  pull  a  revolver  from  out 
of  a  side-pocket  of  his  shuba. 

II 

He  had,  indeed,  sat  in  one  place  from  eight  in  the 
evening  until  3  a.m. 

At  seven  o'clock  of  this  last  evening  of  his  life  he  had 
left  his  flat,  hired  an  izvoschik,  and  had  driven,  sitting 
huddled  up  in  the  sleigh,  to  the  far  end  of  the  town, 
where  an  old  friend  of  his  lived,  a  doctor,  who  that 
evening,  as  he  knew,  was  going  with  his  wife  to  the 
theatre.  He  knew  that  he  would  not  find  his  friends  at 
home,  and  was  not  going  for  the  sake  of  seeing  them. 
He  would  be  sure  to  gain  admittance  as  an  intimate 
friend,  and  that  was  all  that  was  necessary. 

*'  Yes,  they  are  sure  to  let  me  in.  I  will  say  that  I 
must  write  a  note.  If  only  Dunyasha  won't  think  of 
standing  by  me  in  the  room.  .  .  .  Hey,  old  man,  get  along 
faster  !"  he  called  out  to  the  izvoschik. 

The  izvoschik  —  a  little  old  man,  his  back  bent  with 
age,  with  a  very  thin  neck  enveloped  in  a  coloured 
muffler,  which  stuck  out  above  the  wide  collar  of  his 
coat,  and  with  yellowish-tinged  grey  curls  breaking  out 
from  under  an  enormous  round  cap,  clicked  his  tongue — 
gave  the  reins  a  tug,  again  gave  a  click,  and  hurriedly 
murmured  in  a  wheezy  voice  : 

"  We  will  get  there.  Your  Excellency,  never  fear. 
Now,  now  !  .  .  .  Get  on,  you  spoiled  .  .  .  Eh,  but  what 
a  horse,  may  the  Lord  pardon  !  .  .  .  Now,  now  !"  He 
struck  the  horse  with  his  whip,  but  the  only  response  was 
a  slight  swish  of  its  tail.     "  And  I  should  be  glad  to 


100  A  NIGHT 

please  Your  Excellency,  but  the  master  has  given  me 
such  a  horse — simply  it  is  .  .  .  The  gentlemen  are  in- 
sulted, but  what  is  to  be  done  ?  And  the  master  says, 
'  Thou,'  he  says,  *  Grandad,  art  an  old  man,  and  so  here 
is  an  old  beast  for  thee  ;  you  will  be  a  pair,'  he  says, 
'  and  the  young  ones  laugh.  Glad  to  laugh.  What  is 
it  to  them  ?  They  can  scarcely  understand.  They  do 
not  understand." 

*' What  do  they  not  understand  ?"  inquired  the  pas- 
senger, occupied  at  this  moment  in  thinking  how  not  to 
let  Dunyasha  into  the  room. 

"  They  do  not  understand.  Your  Excellency.  They 
do  not  understand.  How  can  they  ?  They  are  silly — 
young.  I  am  the  only  old  man  in  the  yard.  Is  it  per- 
missible to  insult  an  old  man  ?  I  have  been  eighty  years 
in  this  world,  and  they  are  just  showing  their  teeth. 
Twenty- three  years  I  served  as  a  soldier.  ...  It  is  well 
known  that  they  are  stupid.  .  .  .  Well,  you  old  rubbish, 
have  you  frozen  stiff  ?" 

And  he  again  hit  the  horse  a  whack  with  his  whip,  but 
as  it  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  the  blow,  he 
added  :  ''  What's  to  be  done  with  it  ?  Also,  I  expect, 
tv/enty-one  years  old.  Get  on,  you  .  .  .  Look,  how  it 
swishes  its  tail !" 

On  the  illuminated  face  of  a  clock  in  one  of  the  windows 
of  a  large  building  the  hands  pointed  to  half-past 
seven. 

"  They  must  have  already  started,"  thought  the 
passenger  of  the  doctor  and  his  wife.  *'  But  perhaps  not 
yet.  .  .  .  Grandad,  don't  hurry,  please.  Go  slower. 
I  am  not  in  a  hurry." 

"  That's  known,  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  pleased.  "  AU 
the  better  slower.     Now  then,  you  old  ..." 

They  went  along  for  a  little  time  in  silence,  then  the 
old  man  grew  bold. 

**  Tell  me,  Your  Excellency,"  he  said,  suddenly  turning 
round  towards  his  passenger,  revealing  a  wrinkled  face 


A  NIGHT  loi 

with  red  eyelids,  and  framed  in  a  straggly  grey  beard, 
**  why  does  this  kind  of  thing  happen  to  a  man  ?  There 
was  an  izvoschik  amongst  us  called  Ivan,  a  young 
fellov/,  twenty-five  or  perhaps  less  years  old.  And  who 
knows  why,  from  what  reason,  he  laid  hands  on  himself." 

*'  Who  V  quietly  inquired  the  passenger  in  a  hoarse 
voice. 

"  Why,  Ivan  Sidoroff.  He  lived  amongst  us  izvos- 
chiks.  He  was  a  bright  young  fellow  and  hard-working. 
W^ell,  on  Monday  we  had  supper  and  laid  down  to  sleep. 
But  Ivan  laid  down  without  having  any  supper.  His 
head,  he  said  v/as  breaking.  We  slept,  but  in  the  night 
he  got  up  and  went  out.  Only  no  one  saw  this.  We  went 
out  in  the  morning  to  harness  up,  and  there  he  was  in 
the  stable  on  a  peg.  He  had  taken  the  harness  from  off 
a  peg,  placed  it  alongside,  and  fastened  a  cord.  .  .  .  Ah 
me  !  It  was  heart-breaking.  And  what  was  the  reason 
this  izvoschik  hanged  himself  ?  How  could  it  have 
happened  ?     Wonderful  !" 

"  Why  ?"  asked  the  passenger,  coughing,  and  with 
trembling  hands  wrapping  himself  up  more  closely  in 
his  shuba. 

"  There  are  no  such  thoughts  with  an  izvoschik. 
Work  is  hard  and  difncult.  In  the  early  morning,  when 
there  is  no  light  before  dawn,  harness  up  and  away  from 
the  yard.  Frost  and  cold.  Only  the  traktir  in  which 
to  get  warm.  Money  to  be  earned  so  as  to  pay  the  two 
roubles  and  a  half  for  hire  of  the  horse,  and  money  for 
the  lodging  to  be  found,  and — sleep.  It  is  difficult  to 
think  much  then.  But  with  you,  sir,  you  know  that 
everything  crowds  into  the  head  with  '  light '  food." 

"  With  what  kind  of  food  ?" 

*'  With  bread  lightly  earned.  Therefore  the  Barin 
will  get  up,  put  on  his  dressing-grown,  drink  his  tea,  and 
wander  about  his  room  with  wicked  thoughts  around 
him.  I  have  seen  it.  I  know.  In  our  regiment  at 
T ,  in  the  Caucasus,  when  I  was  serving,  there  v/as  a 


102  A  NIGHT 

young    subaltern,   Prince    V They  made  me  his 

servant  ..." 

"  Stop,  stop  !  .  .  ."  suddenly  called  out  the  passenger. 
"  Here,  by  the  lamp.     I  will  walk  from  here." 

"  As  the  Bar  in  wishes.  Walk  if  he  wishes  to  walk. 
Thank  you,  Your  Excellency." 

The  izvoschik  turned  and  disappeared  in  the 
miatel  which  had  arisen,  and  the  passenger  went  on 
with  dragging  steps.  In  ten  minutes'  time  he  reached  the 
house,  and  having  arrived  at  the  third  story  by  way  of 
the  front  staircase,  he  rang  at  a  door  covered  with  green 
baize,  and  ornamented  with  a  highly  polished  brass 
name-plate.  As  he  waited  for  the  door  to  be  opened, 
the  few  minutes  seemed  to  drag  as  if  they  would  never 
come  to  an  end.  A  dull  oblivion  seized  him  ;  everything 
disappeared  ;  the  tormenting  past,  the  chatter  of  the  half- 
drunken  izvoschik,  so  strangely  apposite  that  it  com- 
pelled him  to  walk,  and  even  the  intention  which  had 
brought  him  here — all  had  disappeared.  Before  his 
eyes  was  only  a  green-baize  door  edged  with  black  tape 
studded  with  brass-headed  nails.  Naught  else  in  the 
whole  world. 

''  Ah,  Alexei  Petrovich  !" 

It  was  Dunyasha  vv^ho,  candle  in  hand,  opened  the 
door. 

"  And  the  Barin  and  Barinia  have  just  gone  out. 
Only  this  minute  gone  down  the  stairs.  How  is  it  you 
did  not  meet  them  ?" 

"  Gone  ?  Oh,  what  a  pity  !"  He  lied  in  such  a 
strange  voice  that  Dunyasha' s  face  betrayed  some 
bewilderment  as  she  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 
"  And  I  wanted  to  see  them.  Look  here,  Dunyasha;  I 
am  going  into  the  Sarin's  study  for  a  minute.  .  .  . 
May  I  ?"  he  asked,  even  timidly.  "  I  won't  be  a  minute. 
Only  just  a  note  ...  it  is  a  matter  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  her  with  an  inquiring  glance,  not  removing 
his  shuba  or  galoshes,  or  moving  from  where  he  stood. 


A  NIGHT  103 

Dunyasha  became  confused. 

"  But  what  is  the  matter  with  you,  Alexei  Petrovich  ? 
Have  I  ever  ...  it  is  not  the  first  time/'  she  said  in  an 
aggrieved  tone.     *'  Please  come  in." 

"  Yes,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  why  all  this  ?  Why  am  I 
talking  like  this  ?  However,  she  will  come  in  after  me. 
I  must  send  her  away.  Where  can  I  send  her  ?  She  will 
guess,  of  course.     She  has  even  guessed  already.'* 

Dunyasha  had  guessed  nothing,  but  was  only  extremely 
surprised  at  the  strange  appearance  and  behaviour  of  the 
visitor.  She  had  been  left  alone  in  the  flat  and  was  glad, 
if  only  for  five  minutes,  to  be  with  a  living  being.  Having 
placed  the  candle  on  a  table,  she  stood  by  the  door. 

"  Go  away,  go  away,  for  goodness'  sake  !"  Alexei  Petro- 
vich kept  saying  inwardly.  He  sat  down  at  the  table, 
took  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  began  to  think  of  what  he  should 
v/rite,  feeling  Dunyasha' s  glance  on  him,  which,  it  seemed 
to  him,  was  reading  his  thoughts. 

"  Peter  Nicolaivich,"  he  wrote,  stopping  at  each  word, 
"  I  came  to  see  you  about  a  very  important  matter 
which  ..." 

"...  Which,  which,"  he  muttered,  *'  and  she  keeps 
standing  and  standing  there.  .  .  .  Dunyasha,  go  and  get 
me  a  glass  of  water,"  he  suddenly  said  in  a  loud  voice. 

"  Certainly,  Alexei  Petrovich."  And  she  turned  and 
went. 

Then  the  visitor  got  up,  and  on  tiptoe  hurriedly  went 
to  the  sofa,  above  which  hung  the  revolver  and  sword 
the  Doctor  had  used  in  the  Russo-Turkish  campaign, 
deftly  unfastened  the  flap  of  the  holster,  pulled  out  the 
revolver,  and  slipped  it  into  the  side-pocket  of  his 
shuba  ;  then  he  took  some  cartridges  out  of  the  pouch 
fastened  on  to  the  holster,  and  slipped  them  also  into  his 
pocket.  Within  three  minutes  Alexei  Petrovich  had 
drunk  the  glass  of  water  which  Dunyasha  brought  him, 
had  sealed  up  the  unwritten  letter,  and  had  started  home. 
"  It  must  be  finished,  it  must  be  finished,"  kept  ringing 


104  A  NIGHT 

in  his  brain.  But  he  did  not  finish  it  immediately 
following  his  arrival  home.  Going  into  his  room  and 
locking  the  door,  he  threw  himself,  without  taking  off 
his  shuba,  into  an  arm-chair,  and,  lost  in  thought,  gazed 
vacantly,  first  at  a  photograph,  then  at  a  book,  or  at  the 
pattern  of  the  wall-paper,  and  listened  to  the  ticking  of 
his  watch,  which  he  had  forgotten,  and  was  lying  on  the 
table.  He  sat  thus,  without  moving  so  much  as  a  muscle, 
until  far  into  the  night,  until  that  moment  when  we 
found  him. 

Ill 

The  revolver  refused  to  come  out  of  the  narrow  pocket ; 
then,  when  it  lay  on  the  table,  he  discovered  that  all 
the  cartridges  except  one  had  fallen  through  a  small 
hole  in  the  pocket  into  the  lining  of  the  shuba.  Alexei 
Petrovich  took  off  his  shuba,  and  was  about  to  take 
a  knife  to  rip  up  the  lining  of  the  pocket  and  get  out  the 
cartridges,  when  he  stopped,  and  a  wry  smile  hovered 
at  one  corner  of  his  parched  lips. 

"  Why  bother  ?  One  is  enough.  Oh  yes,  one  of  these 
little  things  is  quite  sufficient  to  make  everything  dis- 
appear once  and  for  all.  The  whole  world  will  disappear  ; 
there  will  be  no  regrets,  no  w^ounded  self-esteem,  no 
self-reproaches,  no  hateful  people  pretending  to  be  kind 
and  simple — people  whom  one  sees  through  and  despises, 
but  before  whom,  nevertheless,  one  also  dissembles, 
pretending  to  like  them,  and  to  be  well-disposed  towards 
them.  There  will  be  no  deceit  of  self  and  others  ;  there 
will  be  truth,  the  eternal  truth  of  non-existence. 

He  heard  his  voice.  He  was  no  longer  thinking  but 
speaking  aloud,  and  what  he  said  was  hateful  to  him. 

'*  Again.  .  .  .  You  are  dying,  killing  yourself — and  even 
cannot  do  that  without  apostrophizing.  For  whom, 
and  before  whom,  are  you  posing  ?  .  .  .  Before  yourself ! 
Ah,  enough,  enough,  enough,"  he  repeated  in  a  tormented, 
despairing  voice,  and  with  trembling  hands  he  tried  to 


A  NIGHT  105 

open  the  refractory  breech  of  the  revolver.  At  length 
the  breech  submitted  and  opened ;  the  cartridge,  smeared 
with  fat,  slipped  into  the  chamber  of  the  drum,  and  the 
hammer  cocked  apparently  of  its  own  accord.  There  was 
nothing  to  interfere  with  death  !  The  revolver  was  a 
regulation  officer's  revolver  ;  the  door  was  locked,  and 
no  one  could  enter. 

"  Now  then,  Alexei  Petrovich !"  he  said,  firmly 
grasping  the  handle. 

**  But  the  letter  V  suddenly  flashed  into  his  brain. 

*'  Can  I  die  without  leaving  behind  me  one  line  ?" 

"  Why  ?  For  whom  ?  All  will  disappear,  there  v,ill 
be  nothing.     What  concern  is  it  of  mine  ?" 

''  That  may  be,  but  all  the  same  I  shall  write.  May  I 
not  for  once  at  least  express  myself  absolutety  freely, 
not  embarrassed  by  anything  ?  or,  what  is  most  important, 
by  myself  ?  This  surely  is  a  rare,  very  rare,  the  sole 
chance." 

He  laid  down  the  revolver,  took  some  writing-paper 
out  of  a  box,  and  having  tried  several  pens  which  would 
not  write,  but  broke  and  spoilt  the  paper,  he  at  length 
began,  but  not  before  he  had  spoilt  several  sheets : 
**  Petersburg.  28  November,  187-."  Afterwards  his 
hand  ran  of  its  own  accord  along  the  paper,  reeling  off 
sentence  after  sentence,  barely  intelligible  to    himse. 

He  wrote  that  he  was  dying  calmly  because  regrets 
were  useless.  Life  was  one  vast  lie.  People  whom  he 
loved — that  is,  if  he  had  ever  really  loved  anybody,  and 
had  not  pretended  to  himself  that  he  loved — were  not 
able  to  make  him  live,  because  he  had  drawn  all  there  was 
to  be  drawn  out  of  them — no,  no,  not  that — because 
there  was  nothing  to  draw  out  of  them,  but  simply  because 
they  had  lost  all  interest  for  him  once  he  understood  them. 
He  wrote  that  he  understood  himxself,  and  understood 
that  in  himself  there  was  nothing  but  falsehood  ;  that  if 
he  had  done  anything  in  his  life,  it  was  not  from  a  wish 
to  do  good,  but  from  vanity  ;  that  if  he  had  done  nothing 


io6  A  NIGHT 

wrong  or  dishonourable,  it  was  not  due  to  absence  of  evil 
qualities,  but  from  cowardly  fright  of  people.  He  wrote 
that,  nevertheless,  he  did  not  think  himself  worse  than 
those  persons  remaining  to  lie  until  the  end  of  their 
days,  and  did  not  beg  their  pardon,  but  was  dying  with 
a  contempt  for  people  not  less  than  his  contempt  for  him- 
self. A  malicious,  senseless  phrase  slipped  in  at  the  end 
of  the  letter  :  "  Farewell,  people  !  Farewell,  you  blood- 
thirsty grimacing  apes  !" 

It  only  remained  to  sign  the  letter.  But  when  he  had 
finished  writing  he  felt  hot ;  the  blood  had  surged  to  his 
head,  and  was  beating  against  his  perspiring  temples. 
And  forgetting  about  the  revolver  and  the  fact  that  by 
ridding  himself  of  life  he  could  avoid  the  heat,  he  got  up, 
went  to  the  window,  and  opened  the  fortochka.  A 
steaming  current  of  frosty  air  blew  in  on  him.  It  had 
stopped  snowing,  and  the  sky  was  clear.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street  a  dazzling  white  garden,  wrapped  in 
icicles,  glistened  in  the  moonlight.  A  few  stars  were 
gazing  from  out  of  a  distant  heaven,  one  of  which  was 
brighter  than  the  remainder,  and  shone  with  a  reddish  tint. 

"  Arcturus,"  whispered  Alexei  Petrovich.  "  What 
years  since  I  have  seen  Arcturus.  Not  since  I  was  at 
school !" 

He  was  unwilling  to  take  his  eyes  off  the  star.  Some- 
body shivering  in  a  light  overcoat,  and  stamping  with  his 
half-frozen  feet  on  the  pavement,  passed  hurriedly  along 
the  street.  Then  a  carriage,  the  wheels  of  which  rang 
on  the  frozen  snow,  and  then  an  izvoschik  went  past, 
driving  a  fat  man — and  still  Alexei  Petrovich  stood  there 
as  if  carved. 

"  It  must  be  done  !"  he  said  at  last. 

He  went  to  the  table.  It  was  only  a  few  paces  from 
the  window  to  the  table,  but  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had 
been  walking  ages.  He  had  already  taken  up  the 
revolver,  when  through  the  opened  window  there  came 
the  distant  but  clear,  vibrating  sound  of  a  bell. 


A  NIGHT  107 

"  A  bell !"  exclaimed  Alexei  Petrovich,  astonished,  and 
replacing  the  revolver  once  more  on  the  table,  he  threw 
himself  into  the  arm-chair. 


IV 

"  A  bell !"  he  repeated.  Why  a  bell  ?  .  .  .  Was  it 
a  service  ?  Prayers  .  .  .  church  .  .  .  suffocating  heat. 
Wax  candles.  The  decrepit  priest,  Father  Michael,  per- 
forming the  service  in  a  plaintive,  cracked  voice,  and  the 
deacon  with  his  bass.  A  longing  to  sleep.  Dawn  just» 
breaking  through  the  window.  His  father  standing  next 
him  with  bowed  head,  making  hurried  little  crosses. 
Behind  them,  in  the  crowd  of  moujiks  and  babas, 
constant  prostrations.  .  .  .  How  long  ago  it  all  was  !  .  .  . 
So  long  ago  that  it  was  hard  to  believe  it  had  ever 
happened,  that  he  had  himself  once  seen  it,  and  had  not 
read  of  it  somewhere,  or  heard  of  it  from  somebody.  No, 
no,  it  all  happened,  and  it  was  better  then.  Yes,  not  only 
better  but  well.  If  only  it  was  like  that  now,  there  would 
be  no  need  to  leave  by  aid  of  a  revolver. 

"  Finish  it  !"  something  whispered  to  him.  He  glanced 
at  the  revolver,  and  stretched  out  his  hand  towards  it, 
but  immediately  drew  it  back. 

"  Afraid  ?"  it  whispered  again. 

"  No,  not  afraid.  There  is  nothing  frightening  in  it. 
But  the  bell  !     Why  the  bell  ?" 

He  glanced  at  the  watch. 

"  It  must  be  early  morning  service.  People  will  go  to 
church.  Many  of  them  will  feel  easier  for  it.  So  they 
say,  at  all  events.  Besides,  I  remember  I  used  to  feel 
better  for  it.  I  was  a  boy  then.  Afterwards  this  passed 
off,  perished,  and  I  no  longer  felt  easier  for  it.  That's 
the  truth  .  .  .  truth  !  The  truth  has  been  found  at  last 
at  this  moment  !" 

And  the  moment  seemed  inevitable.  He  slowly  turned 
his  head  and  again  looked  at  the  revolver.     It  was  a  big 


io8  A  NIGHT 

Government  regulation  pattern  revolver,  a  Smith  and 
Wesson.  It  had  been  "  browned  "  once,  but  had  now 
become  lighter  in  colour,  owing  to  its  long  rest  in  the 
doctor's  holsters.  It  lay  on  the  table  with  the  butt 
towards  Alexei  Petrovich,  who  could  see  the  worn  wood 
of  the  handle  with  its  ring  for  the  cord,  a  part  of  the 
drum,  with  the  cocked  trigger  and  the  muzzle  of  the  barrel, 
which  looked  towards  the  wall. 
"  There  lies  death  !  It  must  be  seized." 
It  was  quiet  in  the  street ;  no  one  was  either  driving 
•  or  walking  past.  And  from  out  of  this  stillness  there 
again  sounded  the  distant  stroke  of  a  bell.  The  waves 
of  sound  floated  through  the  open  window,  and  reached 
Alexei  Petrovich.  They  spoke  to  him  in  a  foreign  tongue, 
but  spoke  something  great,  important,  and  solemn,  stroke 
after  stroke,  and  when  the  bell  resounded  for  the  last 
time,  and  the  sound  tremblingly  died  away  into  space, 
Alexei  Petrovich  experienced  a  real  loss.  The  bell  had 
delivered  its  message.  It  had  recalled  to  a  perplexed 
man  that  there  is  something  besides  his  own  narrow  little 
world  which  had  tormented  him,  and  brought  him  to 
suicide.  Recollections,  fragmentary,  disjointed,  and  all 
as  if  something  entirely  new  for  him,  came  flooding  on 
him  in  an  irresistible  wave.  This  night  he  had  already 
pondered  over  many  things,  had  recalled  much,  and 
imagined  that  he  had  recalled  all  his  life,  that  he  had 
clearly  seen  himself.  Now  he  felt  that  there  was  another 
side  in  him,  that  side  of  which  the  timid  voice  of  his  soul 
had  spoken. 


Do  you  remember  yourself  as  a  little  child  when  you 
lived  with  your  father  in  a  far-away  forgotten  village  ? 
He  was  an  unhappy  man,  your  father,  but  he  loved  you 
more  than  all  else  in  the  world.  Do  you  remember  how 
you  would  sit  together  in  the  long  winter  evenings,  he 
busy  with  accounts,  you  with  your  books,  the   tallow- 


A  NIGHT  109 

dipped  candle  with  its  reddish  flame  burning  more  and 
more  dimly,  until,  arming  yourself  with  snuffers,  you 
trimmed  it  ?  That  was  your  duty,  and  you  performed 
it  with  such  importance  that  your  father  each  time  would 
raise  his  eyes  from  the  big  ledger,  and  with  customary 
pathetic  and  caressing  smile,  look  at  you.  Your  eyes 
would  meet. 

*'  Look,  papa,  how  much  I  have  already  read,"  you 
would  say,  and  show  the  pages  you  had  read,  holding 
them  together  with  your  fingers. 

"  Read,  read,  my  little  friend,"  your  father  would  say 
approvingly,  and  again  bury  himself  in  accounts. 

He  allowed  you  to  read  anything,  because  only  good 
could  remain  in  the  mind  of  his  adored  little  boy.  And 
you  read  and  read,  understanding  nothing  of  the  argu- 
ments, but,  nevertheless,  taking  it  all  in  accordance  with 
childish  ideas. 

Yes,  red  was  red  then,  and  not  the  reflection  of  red  rays. 
Then  everything  was  as  it  appeared.  Then  there  were 
not  ready-made  receptacles  for  impressions,  for  ideas  into 
which  a  man  poured  forth  all  that  he  felt,  not  troubling 
whether  the  receptacle  was  a  fit  one  or  sound.  And  if  he 
loved  someone,  he  knew  without  a  doubt  that  he  loved. 

A  pretty,  laughing  face  rose  before  his  eyes  and 
vanished. 

And  she  ?  You  also  loved  her  ?  I  must  acknowledge 
that,  at  all  events,  we  played  sufficiently  with  feeling. 
And  it  would  seem  that  at  least  I  spoke  and  thought 
sincerely  at  that  time.  .  .  .  What  torture  it  was  !  And 
when  happiness  came  it  did  not  seem  at  all  like  happiness, 
and  if  I  had  been  able  then  actually  to  say  to  time.  Stop  ! 
wait  a  little  !  here  it  is  good — I  should  have  still  thought 
— Shall  I  order  it  to  stop  or  not  ?  And  afterwards,  very 
soon  afterwards,  it  became  necessary  to  drive  time 
ahead.  .  .  .  But  it  is  no  use  to  think  of  that  now.  I  must 
think  of  what  was  and  not  of  what  it  appeared  to  be. 

And  there  was  very  little  to  think  of,  only  childhood. 


no  A  NIGHT 

And  of  that  there  remained  in  his  memory  only  dis- 
jointed fragments  which  Alexei  Petrovich  began  to  collect 
with  avidity. 

He  recalled  the  little  house,  the  bedroom  in  which 
he  slept  opposite  his  father.  He  remembered  the  red 
canopy  hanging  above  his  father's  bed.  Every  evening, 
as  he  fell  asleep,  he  gazed  at  these  curtains,  and  always 
found  fresh  figures  in  its  fantastic  patterns — flowers, 
birds,  and  faces  of  people.  He  remembered  the  early 
morning  smell  of  the  straw  with  which  they  warmed  the 
house.  The  faithful  Nicholas,  the  good  man  had  already 
filled  the  passage  with  straw,  which  he  had  dragged  in 
from  outside,  and  v/as  pushing  whole  bundles  of  it  into 
the  mouth  of  the  stove.  It  used  to  burn  brightly  and 
clearly,  and  the  smoke  had  a  pleasing,  but  somewhat 
acrid  smell.  Alesha  was  ready  to  sit  whole  hours  before 
the  stove,  but  his  father  would  call  him  to  come  and  drink 
his  morning  tea,  after  which  lessons  would  begin.  He 
remembered  how  he  could  not  understand  decimals,  and 
that  his  father  would  get  rather  hot,  and  try  his  utmost 
to  explain  them  to  him. 

"  I  fancy  he  was  not  altogether  clear  about  them  him- 
self," reflected  Alexei  Petrovich. 

Then  afterwards  Biblical  history.  Alesha  loved  that 
more  than  all  the  other  lessons.  Wonderful,  gigantic, 
and  extravagant  characters.  Cain,  the  history  of  Joseph, 
the  Pharaohs,  the  wars.  How  the  ravens  carried  food 
to  the  prophet  Elijah.  And  there  was  a  picture  of  it. 
Elijah  sitting  on  a  stone  with  a  large  book  on  his  knees, 
and  two  birds  flying  to  him  holding  something  round  in 
their  beaks. 

"  Papa,  look,  the  ravens  took  bread  to  Elijah,  but  our 
Worka  takes  everything  from  us." 

A  tame  raven  with  red  beak  and  claws  dyed  with  red 
paint,  so  Nicholas  imagined,  would  jump  sideways  along 
the  back  of  the  sofa,  and,  stretching  out  his  neck,  try  to 
drag  a  shiny  bronze  frame  from  the  wall.     In  this  frame 


A  NIGHT  III 

there  was  a  miniature  water-coloured  portrait  of  a  young 
man  with  a  very  smooth  forehead,  dressed  in  a  dark  green 
uniform  with  epaulets,  and  a  very  high  red  collar,  and  a 
cross  attached  to  a  buttonhole.  This  was  the  same  papa 
twenty-five  years  ago. 

The  raven  and  portrait  flashed  up  and  disappeared. 

"  And  afterwards  what  ?  Afterwards  a  star,  a  shed, 
manger.  I  remember  that  this  word  manger  was  quite 
a  new  one  to  me,  although  I  had  known  of  the  manger 
in  our  stables  and  cow-house.  But  those  stalls  seemed 
something  special." 

They  did  not  study  the  New  Testament  like  the  Old, 
not  from  a  thick  book  with  pictures.  His  father  used 
to  tell  Alesha  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  often  read  out  to  him 
whole  chapters  from  the  Gospels. 

"  '  But  whosoever  shall  smite  thee  on  thy  right  cheek, 
turn  to  him  the  other  also.'  Do  you  understand,  Alesha  ? " 
And  the  father  began  a  long  explanation  to  which  Alesha 
did  not  listen,  but  suddenly  interrupted  his  teacher  by 
saying  :  "  Papa,  do  you  remember  when  Uncle  Dmitri 
Ivanovich  arrived  ?  That's  exactly  what  happened. 
He  struck  Thomas  in  the  face,  and  Thomas  stood  still, 
and  then  Uncle  Dmitri  Ivanovich  struck  him  from  the 
other  side,  and  still  Thomas  did  not  move.  I  was  sorry 
for  him,  and  cried." 

"  Yes,  then  I  cried,"  murmured  Alexei  Petrovich, 
rising  from  the  arm-chair  and  commencing  to  pace  the 
room.     "  Then  I  cried." 

He  became  dreadfully  sorry  for  these  tears  of  a  sixteen- 
year-old  boy,  sorry  for  that  time  when  he  could  cry 
because  a  defenceless  human  being  was  struck  in  his 
presence. 

VI 

The  frosty  air  was  all  this  time  entering  the  window. 
A  cloud  of  steam  was  literally  pouring  into  the  already 
cold  room.     The  big  squat  lamp,  with  its  opaque  shade. 


112  A  NIGHT 

standing  on  the  writing-table,  burned  brightly,  but  only 
lighted  the  surface  of  the  table,  and  a  portion  of  the  ceiling 
on  which  it  formed  a  trembling  round  spot  of  light. 
The  rest  of  the  room  was  in  semi-darkness,  through  which 
could  be  discerned  a  bookcase,  a  large  sofa,  some  other 
furniture,  and  a  looking-glass  on  the  wall,  which  reflected 
the  lighted-up  v,Titing-table  and  the  tall  figure  each  time 
he  strode  past  it  in  his  restless  movement  from  corner 
to  corner  of  the  room,  eight  paces  there  and  eight  paces 
back.  Sometimes  Alexei  Petrovich  stopped  at  the 
window.  The  cold  current  bathed  his  burning  head, 
and  his  bared  neck  and  chest.  He  shivered,  but  was  not 
refreshed.  He  continued  to  recall  those  days  in  a  series 
of  fragmentary  and  disjointed  reminiscences.  He  re- 
called numberless  little  trivial  details,  becoming  confused 
in  them,  and  unable  to  distinguish  precisely  what  was 
important  in  them.  He  knew  only  one  thing — i.e.,  that 
up  to  twelve  years  of  age,  when  his  father  sent  him  to 
school,  he  had  lived  an  entirely  different  inner  life,  and 
he  remembered  that  then  it  was  better. 

"  What  is  drawing  thee  to  that  half -conscious  life  ? 
What  was  there  good  in  those  childish  years  ?  A  solitary 
child  and  a  solitary  grown-up  man — a  '  crushed  *  man, 
as  you  yourself  called  him  after  his  death.  You  were 
right,  he  was  a  "  crushed  "  man.  Life  had  quickly  and 
easily  destroyed  all  the  good  in  him,  all  the  good  which 
he  had  collected  in  his  youth,  but  at  least  it  had  not  in- 
troduced anything  bad.  And  he  lived  his  time,  helpless, 
with  a  helpless  love  which  he  devoted  almost  entirely 
to  you." 

Alexei  Petrovich  thought  of  his  father,  and  for  the  first 
time  after  many  years  felt  that  he  loved  him,  in  spite  of 
all  his  smallness.  He  wished  now,  if  only  for  one  minute, 
to  take  himself  back  to  his  childhood,  to  the  village,  to 
the  little  house,  and  to  caress  this  "  crushed  "  man,  caress 
him  in  regular  childish  fashion.  He  longed  for  that 
clean  and  simple  love  v/hich  only  children  know,  and 


A  NIGHT  113 

possibly  the  very  clean,  unspoiled  natures  of  a  few  older 
people. 

**  And  is  it  really  impossible  to  return  to  this  happi- 
ness ?  To  this  ability  to  recognize  that  what  one  says 
and  thinks  is  true  ?  How  many  years  it  is  since  I  ex- 
perienced it  !  One  speaks  warmly  and  apparently 
sincerely,  but  in  one's  soul  there  is  all  the  time  sitting 
a  canker-worm,  devouring  it,  and  sucking  it  dry,  and 
saying  :  *  My  friend,  are  you  not  lying  ?  Do  you  in 
reality  think  what  you  are  now  speaking  ?'  " 

Yet  one  more  apparently  senseless  phrase  took  shape 
in  the  head  of  Alexei  Petrovich.  "  Do  you  really  think 
what  you  are  thinking  ?"  It  was  a  senseless  phrase, 
but  he  understood  it. 

Yes,  then  he  really  thought  what  he  thought.  He 
had  loved  his  father,  who  knew  that  he  loved  him. 
*'  Oh,  if  there  were  but  one  genuine  real  feeling  within  me. 
Yet  there  exists  such  a  world.  The  bell  reminded  me  of 
it.  When  it  sounded  I  remembered  the  church,  the  crowd, 
the  enormous  mass  of  humanity,  the  real  life.  That  is 
where  one  must  go — out  of  oneself — and  that  is  where 
one  must  love,  and  love  as  children  love.  As  children  .  . . 
just  as  it  is  said  there.  ..." 

He  went  to  the  table,  drew  out  one  of  the  drawers, 
and  commenced  to  rummage  in  it.  A  little  dark  green 
book,  bought  by  him  once  at  some  exhibition  as  a  cheap 
curio,  lay  in  a  corner.  He  seized  it  joyously,  quickly 
turning  over  the  leaves  with  their  two  narrow  columns 
of  small  print.  Familiar  words  and  sentences  rose  to 
mind.  He  began  to  read  from  the  first  page,  and  read  it 
all  without  a  pause,  having  forgotten  even  about  the 
sentence  in  search  of  which  he  had  got  out  the  book. 
This  sentence,  which  had  so  long  been  familiar  and  so  long 
forgotten,  astonished  him,  when  he  came  upon  it  with  the 
weight  of  the  substance  expressed  in  its  words  :  "  Except 
ye  become  as  little  children  ..." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  understood  all. 


114  A  NIGHT 

"  Do  I  know  what  these  words  mean  *  Become  as  a 
little  child  '  ?  It  means  not  to  place  oneself  first  in 
everything,  to  tear  from  one's  heart  this  horrid  little 
deformed  god  with  its  protuberant  paunch,  this  repulsive 
*  ego '  which,  like  some  canker-worm,  sucks  dry  the 
soul,  and  ceaselessly  demands  of  it  fresh  food.  But  out 
of  where  shall  I  tear  it  ?  Thou  hast  already  devoured 
all.  All  my  time,  all  my  forces,  have  been  devoted  to 
thy  service.  I  have  nourished  thee,  have  revered  thee. 
Although  I  hated  thee  I  still  worshipped  thee,  bringing 
to  thee  in  sacrifice,  and  giving  to  thee  all  the  good  which 
I  possessed,  and  for  this  I  have  bowed  and  bowed  ..." 

He  repeated  this  word  as  he  continued  to  pace  the 
room.  But  his  gait  was  now  unsteady.  He  staggered 
as  if  drunk,  with  his  head  lowered  on  his  chest,  which 
was  heaving  with  sobs,  not  stopping  to  wipe  his  tear- 
moistened  face.  At  last  his  legs  refused  to  serve  him  any 
longer,  and  he  sat  down,  pressing  himself  into  a  corner 
of  the  sofa.  Supporting  himself  on  his  elbows,  he  dropped 
his  fevered  head  into  his  hands  and  wept  like  a  child. 
This  loss  of  strength  lasted  for  some  time,  but  he  was 
no  longer  in  torture.  The  storm  was  abating,  the  tears 
were  flowing,  giving  him  relief,  and  he  felt  no  shame  in 
them.  No  matter  who  had  entered  the  room  at  that 
moment,  he  would  not  have  tried  to  restrain  these  tears 
which  were  carrying  away  hate  with  them.  He  felt  now 
that  all  had  not  yet  been  swallowed  up  by  the  idol  to 
which  he  had  bowed  for  so  many  years.  That  there  still 
remained  love  and  even  self-denial.  That  it  was  worth 
while  living  if  only  to  pour  forth  this  remnant ;  where,  and 
on  what,  he  did  not  know.  At  that  moment  it  was  not 
necessary  to  know  where  to  take  his  guilty  head.  He 
recalled  the  grief  and  suffering  which  it  had  been  his  lot 
to  witness  in  life — genuine  living  grief  before  which  all  his 
torments  in  solitude  had  no  significance ;  and  he  understood 
that  he  ought  to  go  to  this  grief,  to  take  his  share  of  it  upon 
himself,  and  only  then  would  there  be  peace  in  his  soul. 


A  NIGHT  115 

"It  is  terrible !  I  can  no  longer  live  on  engrossed  in 
my  own  fears  and  in  myself.  It  is  necessary,  absolutely 
necessary,  to  bind  myself  with  life  in  general,  to  suffer 
or  to  rejoice,  to  hate  or  to  love,  not  for  my  own  sake,  not 
for  my  '  ego,'  devouring  all  and  giving  nothing  in  return, 
but  for  the  sake  of  truth,  common  to  all,  which  is  in  the 
world,  notwithstanding  anything  I  may  have  said,  which 
speaks  in  the  soul  in  spite  of  all  attempts  to  stifle  it.  Yes, 
yes,"  repeated  Alexei  Petrovich  in  awful  excitement, 
'*  all  this  is  written  in  the  little  green  book,  is  said  for  ever 
a,nd  aye,  and  is  truly  said.  It  is  necessary  to  '  reject ' 
oneself,  to  kill  one's  '  ego,'  to  make  for  the  road  ..." 

"  What  use  is  it  to  you,  madman  ?"  whispered  a  voice. 
But  another,  once  timid  and  unheeded  voice,  thundered 
in  reply  :  "  Silence  !  What  benefit  will  it  be  to  him  if  he 
tortures  himself  ?" 

Alexei  Petrovich  jumped  to  his  feet  and  straightened 
himself  to  his  full  height.  This  argument  rendered  him 
enthusiastic.  He  had  never  yet  experienced  such  en- 
thusiasm from  any  life-success  or  from  woman's  love. 
This  enthusiasm  was  born  of  his  heart,  burst  from  it, 
pouring  out  in  a  hot,  wide  wave,  and  flowed  through  all 
his  limbs.  In  an  instant  his  numbed,  unhappy  being 
flamed  to  life.  Thousands  of  bells  sounded  in  majestic 
triumph.  A  blinding  sun  flashed  out,  illumined  the 
whole  world,  and  disappeared.  .  .  . 

:!:  :i:  4:  *  4: 

The  lamp,  which  had  burned  throughout  the  long  night, 
became  dimmer  and  dimmer,  and  finally  went  out  alto- 
gether. But  it  w^as  no  longer  dark  in  the  room.  Day 
had  broken.  Its  calm  grey  light  little  by  little  found  its 
way  into  the  room,  faintly  showing  up  the  loaded  weapon 
and  the  letter  with  its  senseless  ravings  lying  on  the  table, 
and  revealing  a  peaceful,  happy  expression  on  the  pallid 
face  of  a  corpse  stretched  on  the  floor  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 


VII 

A  TOAD  AND  A  ROSE 

Once  upon  a  time  in  this  world  there  lived  a  rose  and  a 
toad. 

The  bush  on  which  the  rose  bloomed  grew  in  a  not  very 
big  crescent-shaped  flower-bed  in  front  of  a  country  house 
in  a  village.  The  flower-bed  was  in  a  very  neglected  state. 
Grass  and  weeds  grew  thickly  over  its  sunken  surface,  and 
along  the  paths,  which  no  one  had  cleaned  or  sprinkled 
with  sand  for  a  long  time.  A  wooden  trellis,  which  had 
once  been  painted  green,  was  now  quite  bare  of  any  such 
decoration,  had  rotted,  and  was  falling  to  pieces.  Most 
of  the  long  stakes  of  which  the  trellis-work  was  composed 
had  been  pulled  up  by  the  boys  of  the  village  for  playing 
at  soldiers,  or  by  peasants  coming  to  the  house  to  defend 
themselves  from  a  savage  yard-dog. 

But  the  flower-bed  itself  was  none  the  worse  for  this 
desolation.  Climbing  hop  tendrils  entwined  themselves 
amongst  the  debris  of  the  trellis-work,  mingling  with  the 
large  white  flowers  of  convolvuli.  Broom  hung  from  it 
in  pale  green  clusters,  dotted  with  lilac-tinted  bunches  of 
bloom.  Prickly  thistles  grew  so  freely  in  the  rich  moist  soil 
(the  flower-bed  was  surrounded  by  a  large  shady  garden), 
that  they  almost  resembled  trees.  Yellow  mullen  raised 
blossom-covered  shoots  even  higher.  Nettles  had  taken 
possession  of  a  whole  corner  of  the  bed.  Of  course  they 
stung,  but,  from  a  distance,  one  could  admire  their  dark 

ii6 


A  TOAD  AND  A  ROSE  117 

foliage,  especially  when  this  foliage  served  as  a  back- 
ground for  the  delicate,  lovely  pale  blossom  of  a  rose. 

It  burst  into  bloom  on  a  beautiful  May  morning. 
When  it  had  opened  its  petals,  the  early  dew,  before  taking 
flight,  had  left  on  them  a  few  transparent  tear-drops, 
which  made  it  look  as  if  the  rose  was  weeping.  But  all 
around  was  so  beautiful,  so  clean  and  bright  on  this 
glorious  morning  when  the  rose  first  saw  the  blue  sky 
and  felt  the  caress  of  the  morning  zephyr,  and  the  rays 
of  a  brilliant  sun,  giving  a  pinkish  tint  to  its  thin  petals. 
All  in  the  flower-bed  was  so  peaceful  and  calm  that  had 
the  rose  really  been  able  to  cry,  it  would  not  have  been 
from  grief,  but  from  the  very  joy  of  living.  It  could  not 
talk ;  it  could  only  diffuse  around,  with  lowered  head,  a 
delicate  fresh  perfume,  and  this  perfume  was  at  once  its 
words,  tears,  and  prayers.  But  below  it,  amongst  the  roost 
of  the  rose-bush  on  the  damp  soil,  as  if  glued  to  it  by  its 
flat  belly,  there  sat  a  decidedly  fat  old  toad,  which  used 
to  hunt  all  night  for  worms  and  midges,  and  when  morning 
came,  would  sit  and  rest  from  his  labours,  having  first 
chosen  the  shadiest  and  dampest  spot.  He  used  to  sit 
there,  his  toad's  eyes,  with  their  membranous  lids,  tightly 
closed,  his  scarcely  perceptible  breathing  expanding  his 
dirty-grey  barbed  and  sticky  sides,  with  one  shapeless 
paw  outstretched,  too  lazy  to  tuck  it  in.  He  was  not 
rejoicing  either  in  the  brilliant  morning  sun  or  the  beautiful 
weather.  He  had  fed  and  meant  to  have  a  rest.  But 
when  the  breeze  chanced  to  die  away  for  a  minute,  and 
the  perfume  of  the  rose  was  not  borne  to  one  side,  the 
toad  noticed  it,  and  this  caused  him  a  vague  uneasiness. 
However,  for  a  long  time  he  was  too  lazy  to  look  and  see 
whence  this  scent  was  coming. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  anyone  had  come  to  the  bed 
in  which  the  rose  was  growing  and  the  toad  used  to  sit. 
In  the  autumn  of  the  past  year,  on  the  very  day  that  the 
toad,  having  discovered  an  excellent  chink  under  one  of 
the  stones  forming  the  basement  of  the  house,  had  decided 


ii8  A  TOAD  AND  A  ROSE 

to  take  up  his  winter  quarters  therein,  a  small  boy  had 
come  for  the  last  time  to  this  flower-bed  in  which  he  had 
sat  every  fine  day  throughout  the  summer.  A  lady,  his 
grown-up  sister,  used  to  sit  at  the  window  reading  or 
sewing,  and  from  time  to  time  used  to  look  at  her  brother. 
He  was  a  little  fellow  of  seven,  with  large  eyes  and  a  large 
head  on  a  thin  little  body.  He  was  very  fond  of  his 
flower-bed.  It  was  his  because  only  he  used  to  go  to  this 
deserted  part  of  the  garden,  and  he  would  sit  in  the  sun- 
shine on  a  little  old  wooden  seat  standing  on  a  dry,  once- 
sanded  path,  which  ran  round  the  house  itself,  and  along 
which  servants  used  to  go  to  shut  the  shutters,  and  he 
would  commence  to  read  the  book  he  had  brought  with 
him. 

"  Vasia,  shall  I  throw  you  your  ball  V  his  sister  would 
call  out.  "  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  play  with  it  ?" 
"  No,  Masha,  I  am  better  like  this  with  my  book." 
And  he  would  sit  for  a  long  time  and  read.  Then, 
when  he  v/as  tired  of  reading  about  Robinson  Crusoes, 
savage  countries,  and  pirates,  he  would  leave  his  book 
open  on  the  seat  and  clamber  into  the  thick  of  his  flower- 
bed. He  knew  every  bush,  almost  every  stalk  in  it. 
He  would  squat  on  his  heels  before  the  thick  stem  of 
som_e  shrub  covered  with  rough,  whitish  leaves,  three 
times  as  tall  as  himself,  and  look  for  hours  at  the  world 
of  ants  hurrying  up  to  their  cows — green  insects — and 
note  how  delicately  the  ants  tapped  the  thin  pipes 
sticking  out  along  the  backs  of  these  insects,  and 
collected  the  pure  drops  of  sweet  liquid  which  is  at  the 
end  of  these  pipes.  He  would  v/atch  the  dung  beetle 
busily  and  zealously  rolling  its  ball  somewhere.  He  would 
mark  own  a  spider  which,  having  woven  his  clever 
rainbow-like  web,  was  sitting  on  guard  for  flies,  or  a 
lizard  basking  in  the  sun,  with  its  blunt  little  jaws  open, 
and  its  back  shining  with  little  green  scales.  One  evening 
he  actually  saw  a  hedgehog.  He  could  scarcely  restrain 
his  delight,  and  almost  shouted  and  clapped  his  hands, 


A  TOAD  AND  A  ROSE  119 

but,  afraid  of  frightening  the  prickly  little  '*  beastie," 
he  held  his  breath,  and,  with  eyes  dilated  with  joy,  watched 
in  ecstasies  how,  giving  little  grunts,  it  snified  with  its 
pig-shaped  snout  at  the  roots  of  the  rose-bush,  looking 
for  worms,  and  how  absurdly  it  went  along  with  its  fat 
little  paws  so  ridiculously  like  a  bear's. 

*'  Vasia,  dear,  come  along  in  now;  it  is  getting  damp  !" 
his  sister  called  out  loudly. 

And  the  hedgehog,  frightened  at  the  sound  of  a  human 
voice,  quickly  pulled  his  prickly  shuba  over  his  head 
and  hind  paws,  turning  himself  into  a  ball.  The  boy 
quietly  touched  its  prickles,  and  the  little  animal  still 
further  contracted,  breathing  deeply  and  hurriedly,  like 
a  little  steam-engine. 

Afterwards  the  boy  made  friends  with  this  hedgehog. 
He  was  such  a  delicate,  quiet  little  fellow,  that  even 
the  different  animals  seemed  to  understand  and  soon 
became  accustomed  to  him.  Imagine  his  joy  when  the 
hedgehog  tasted  some  milk  which  the  owner  of  the 
flower-bed  brought  out  in  a  saucer. 

This  spring  the  child  could  not  go  out  to  his  favourite 
nook.  His  sister,  as  before,  was  sitting  near  him,  no 
longer,  however,  at  the  window,  but  by  his  bed.  She 
was  reading  a  book,  not  for  herself,  but  aloud  to  him, 
because  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  raise  his  head  from  the 
white  pillows,  and  difficult  to  hold  even  the  smallest 
book  in  his  little  wasted  hands.  Besides  which,  his  eyes 
quickly  tired  from  reading.  Most  likely  he  would  never 
again  go  to  his  favourite  flower-bed. 

"  Masha  !"  he  suddenly  murmured  to  his  sister. 

*'  What,  dearie  ?" 

"  Is  it  nice  in  my  garden  now  ?     Are  the  roses  out }" 

His  sister  bent  down,  kissed  his  white  cheek,  and  fur- 
tively brushed  away  a  tear. 

"  Very  nice,  darling,  very  nice.  And  the  roses  are  out. 
On  Monday  we  will  go  out  together  there.  The  Doctor 
wijl  let  you  go." 


120  A  TOAD  AND  A  ROSE 

The  boy  did  not  answer,  and  sighed  heavily.  His  sister 
began  to  read  aloud  again  to  him. 

"  That  is  enough.  I  am  tired.  I  would  rather  sleep." 
His  sister  arranged  his  pillows  and  the  white  counter- 
pane, and  he  with  difficulty  turned  over  on  to  his  side 
and  kept  silent.  The  sun  shone  through  the  window, 
which  looked  on  to  the  flower-bed,  and  threw  brilliant 
rays  on  to  the  bed  and  the  little  emaciated  form  lying  on 
it,  lighting  up  the  pillows  and  coverlet,  and  gilding  the 
closely-cropped  hair  and  wasted  neck  of  the  child. 

The  rose  knew  nothing  of  this.  It  had  grown  and 
become  even  more  beautiful.  The  following  day  it  would 
be  in  full  blossom,  and  the  third  day  begin  to  fade  and 
shed  its  petals.  This  was  the  whole  life  of  the  rose. 
But  even  in  this  short  life  it  was  destined  to  experience 
no  little  trepidation  and  sorrow. 

The  toad  had  noticed  it. 

When  he  for  the  first  time  saw  the  flower  with  his  evil 
and  hideous  eyes,  something  strange  stirred  his  toad's 
heart.  He  could  not  tear  himself  away  from  the  tender 
rose-petals,  but  all  the  time  gazed  and  gazed  at  them. 
The  rose  attracted  him  immensely,  and  he  felt  a  desire 
to  be  nearer  such  a  fragrant  and  beautiful  creation.  But 
in  order  to  express  his  tender  feelings,  he  could  think  of 
nothing  better  to  say  than  this  : 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  he  croaked.     "  I  will  gobble  3^ou  up." 

The  rose  shuddered.  Why  was  she  fastened  to  a  stalk  ? 
Birds  were  free,  twittering  around  her  as  they  hopped 
and  flew  from  branch  to  branch.  Sometimes  they  went 
far  away,  where  the  rose  did  not  know.  The  butterflies 
were  also  free  !  How  she  envied  them  !  If  only  she  were 
one  !  How  she  would  take  wing  and  fly  from  those  wicked 
eyes,  persecuting  her  with  their  fixed  gaze.  The  rose 
did  not  know  that  toads  sometimes  waylay  butterflies 
too. 

"  I  will  gobble  you  up  !"  he  repeated,  all  the  time 
looking  at   the  blossom.     And   the  poor   creation   with 


A  TOAD  AND  A  ROSE  121 

horror  saw  how  the  disgusting,  sticky,  clammy  paws 
fastened  round  the  branches  of  the  bush  on  which  she 
was  growing.  However,  it  was  difficult  for  the  toad  to 
climb.  His  smooth  body  could  only  crawl  and  jump 
easily  in  smooth  places.  After  each  effort  to  reach  the 
rose,  he  would  look  up  to  where  the  blossom  swung,  and 
the  rose  froze  with  fright. 

"  Oh,  please,"  she  prayed,  "  if  only  I  may  die  another 
death  !" 

But  the  toad  still  continued  to  clamber  higher.  How- 
ever, when  he  reached  where  the  older  branches  ended, 
and  the  young  ones  began,  he  had  to  suffer  somewhat. 
The  smooth  dark  green  bark  of  the  rose-tree  was  all 
covered  with  hard,  sharp  thorns.  The  toad  kept  pricking 
his  paws  and  belly  with  them,  and  fell  to  the  ground 
covered  with  blood.     He  looked  at  the  flower  with  hatred. 

"  I  have  said  I  will  gobble  you  up,  and  I  will !"  he 
repeated. 

The  evening  came.  It  was  necessary  to  think  of  supper, 
and  the  wounded  toad,  dragging  himself  along,  seized 
incautious  insects  coming  within  his  reach.  Hatred  did 
not  prevent  him  from  filling  his  inside  as  usual.  Further- 
more, his  scratches  were  not  very  dangerous,  and  he 
decided,  when  he  had  had  a  rest,  to  try  once  again  for 
the  blossom  which  he  hated  but  which  so  attracted  him. 

He  rested  for  quite  a  long  time.  The  morning  came, 
midday  passed,  and  the  rose  had  almost  forgotten  about 
her  enemy.  She  was  now  in  full  blossom,  and  was  the 
most  beautiful  creation  in  the  flower-bed.  But  there 
was  no  one  to  come  to  admire  her.  The  little  owner  of 
the  plot  lay  motionless  in  his  bed.  His  sister  never  left 
him,  and  did  not  appear  at  the  window.  Only  the  birds 
and  butterflies  hovered  round  the  rose,  and  the  bees, 
buzzing,  came  and  sometimes  sat  down  inside  the  bloom, 
flying  away  quite  covered  with  the  yellow  dust.^^v^A 
nightingale  flew  down,  perched  on  the  rose-bush,  and 
3an^  his  song.     How  different  from  the  wheezing  of  the 


122  A  TOAD  AND  A  ROSE 

toad  !  The  rose  heard  this  song  and  was  happy.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  the  nightingale  was  singing  to  her, 
and  perhaps  she  was  right.  She  did  not  see  how  her 
enemy  was  clambering  up  the  branches.  This  time  the 
toad  was  not  sparing  either  his  paws  or  belly.  He  was 
covered  with  blood,  but  bravely  clambered  up  higher  ; 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  resonant  tender  trills  of  the 
nightingale,  the  rose  suddenly  heard  the  familiar  wheeze  : 

"  I  said  I  would  gobble  you  up — and  I  will  gobble 
you  up  !" 

His  toad's  eyes  gazed  at  the  rose  from  a  neighbouring 
branch.  The  evil-looking  thing  had  only  one  more  move 
to  make  to  seize  the  blossom.  The  rose  understood  that 
the  end  was  at  hand.  .  .  . 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  little  master  had  long  lain  motionless  on  his  bed. 
His  sister,  sitting  in  the  depths  of  an  arm-chair,  thought 
he  v/as  asleep.  On  her  lap  lay  an  open  book,  but  she 
was  not  reading  it.  Gradually  her  tired  head  drooped  ; 
the  poor  girl  had  not  slept  for  several  nights,  had  not 
left  her  sick  brother,  and  now  she  was  lightly  dozing. 

"  Masha  !"  he  suddenly  whispered. 

Her  sister  gave  a  slight  jump.  She  had  been  dreaming 
that  she  was  sitting  at  the  window,  that  her  little  brother 
was  playing  as  last  year  in  his  flower-bed,  and  had  called 
her.  Opening  her  eyes,  and  seeing  him  in  bed,  wasted 
and  weak,  she  gave  a  deep  sigh. 

"What,  dearest?" 

"  Masha,  you  told  me  that  the  roses  are  out.  Can  you 
get  me  .  .  .  just  one  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  can,  darling." 

She  went  to  the  window,  and  looked  at  the  rose-bush. 
There  was  one  blossom,  and  it  was  a  magnificent  rose. 

"  There  is  a  rose  which  seems  to  have  come  out  pur- 
posely for  you,  and  what  a  beauty  !  Shall  I  get  it,  and 
put  it  here  in  a  glass  for  you  on  the  table  ?     Yes  ?" 

"  Yes,  on  the  table.     I  want  it." 


A  TOAD  AND  A  ROSE  123 

The  girl  took  a  pair  of  scissors,  and  went  out  into  the 
garden.  She  had  not  been  out  of  the  house  for  a  long 
time.  The  sun  blinded  her,  and  she  felt  dizzy  from  the 
fresh  air.  She  got  to  the  bush  at  the  very  instant  the 
toad  had  meant  to  seize  the  flower. 

"  Oh,  how  disgusting  !"  she  cried,  and  seizing  the 
branch  shook  it  violently.  The  toad  fell  flat  on  its 
belly  to  the  ground.  In  fury  it  sprang  at  the  girl,  but 
could  not  jump  higher  than  the  edge  of  her  dress,  and 
was  immediately  sent  flying  by  the  toe  of  her  slipper. 
He  did  not  dare  to  try  a  second  time,  only  from  afar  saw 
how  the  girl  carefully  cut  off  the  rose  and  took  it  into  her 
brother's  room. 

When  the  boy  saw  his  sister  with  the  rose  in  her  hand, 
he  smiled  weakly  for  the  first  time  for  many  a  day,  and 
with  difficulty  made  a  movement  with  his  thin  hand. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  he  whispered  ;  *'  I  want  to  smell  it." 

His  sister  put  the  rose  into  his  hand,  and  helped  him  to 
raise  it  to  his  face.  He  drev/  in  the  tender  perfume,  and, 
smiling  happily,  murmured  : 

"  Ah,  hov/  good  !" 

Then  his  little  face  became  serious  and  motionless,  and 
he  became  silent  for  ever. 

The  rose,  although  she  had  been  cut  before  she  had 
begun  to  shed  her  petals,  felt  that  it  had  not  been  for 
nothing.  They  placed  her  in  a  separate  glass  on  the 
little  coflin,  on  which  were  heaped  whole  wreaths  and 
other  flowers,  but  to  tell  the  truth  no  one  paid  any  atten- 
tion to  them.  But  the  young  girl,  when  she  placed  the 
rose  on  the  table,  raised  it  to  her  lips  and  Icissed  it.  A 
tear  fell  from  her  cheek  on  to  the  flower,  and  this  was  the 
best  incident  in  the  v/hole  life  of  the  rose.  When  it 
began  to  fade  they  put  the  flower  into  an  old  thick  book, 
and  pressed  it,  and  many  years  after  gave  it  to  me.  That 
is  why  I  know  the  whole  history  of  it. 


VIII 

ATTALEA  PRINCEPS 

In  a  certain  large  town  there  was  a  botanical  garden,  and 
in  this  garden  an  enormous  greenhouse  of  glass  and  iron. 
It  was  a  very  handsome  building.  Graceful  spiral  columns 
supported  the  whole  structure,  and  on  them  rested  orna- 
mented arches  interwoven  by  a  whole  web  of  iron  frames, 
in  which  panes  of  glass  were  set.  This  greenhouse  was 
especially  beautiful  when  the  setting  sun  was  reflected 
redly  against  it.  Then  the  v/hole  building  seemed  alight. 
Crimson  rays  played  and  transfused  just  as  in  some 
gigantic,  delicately-cut,  precious  stone. 

Through  the  thick,  but  transparent,  panes  could  be 
discerned  the  captive  plants.  Notwithstanding  the  size 
of  the  greenhouse  its  inmates  felt  cramped  for  space. 
Roots  interlaced  and  robbed  each  other  of  moisture  and 
sustenance.  The  branches  of  the  trees  interfered  with 
the  enormous  leaves  of  palms,  rotted  and  broke  them,  and 
pressing  against  the  iron  framework  themselves  rotted 
and  snapped.  The  gardeners  w^ere  constantly  lopping  off 
boughs  and  binding  the  palm-leaves  with  wires,  so  that 
they  should  not  grow  where  they  wished.  But  these 
efforts  were  of  little  avail.  They  needed  space,  their 
homeland  and  freedom.  They  were  natives  of  hot  climes, 
tender,  luxurious  creations.  They  remembered  with 
longing  the  lands  of  their  birth.  However  transparent 
the  glass  roof  it  was  not  the  clear  heavens.  Occasionally 
in  winter-time  the  panes  became  frosted,  and  then  the 

124 


ATTALEA  PRINCEPS  125 

greenhouse  became  quite  dark.  The  wind  would  howl 
and  beat  against  the  iron  framework,  causing  it  to  vibrate. 
The  roof  would  be  covered  with  drift-snow.  The  plants 
standing  within  would  listen  to  the  beating  of  the  wind, 
and  recall  another  wind,  warm  and  moisture-laden,  which 
used  to  give  them  life  and  health.  And  then  they  would 
long  to  feel  its  breath  once  more  so  that  it  might  sway 
their  boughs  and  play  with  their  leaves.  But  in  the 
greenhouse  the  air  was  motionless,  excepting  when  winter 
storms  shattered  some  of  the  glass  panes ;  then  a  cutting 
cold  current,  a  veritable  icicle,  would  burst  in  on  them, 
leaving  faded,  shrivelled  leaves  in  its  wake. 

But  the  broken  panes  were  always  promptly  mended. 
The  Director  of  the  gardens  was  a  most  learned  man,  v/ho 
allowed  no  disorder  of  any  kind,  notwithstanding  that 
the  greater  part  of  his  time  was  spent  with  a  microscope 
in  a  special  little  glass  sentry-box  situated  in  the  main 
greenhouse. 

Amongst  the  plants  there  was  one  palm  taller  and  more 
beautiful  than  all  the  others.  The  Director,  sitting  in  his 
sentry-box,  called  it  in  Latin  "  Attalea  Princeps."  But 
this  name  was  not  its  native  name.  Botanists  had 
evolved  this  name.  Botanists  did  not  know  its  native 
name,  which  was  not  the  name  painted  in  black  on  the 
white  board  fastened  to  the  trunk  of  the  palm.  Once  a 
native  from  that  hot  country  visited  the  gardens.  When 
he  saw  this  palm  he  laughed  because  it  reminded  him  of 
home. 

**  Ah,"  said  he,  **  I  know  this  tree,"  and  he  called  it  by 
its  home  name. 

"  Excuse  me,"  called  out  from  his  sentry-box  the 
Director,  who  at  that  moment  had  carefully  performed 
some  operation  with  a  razor  on  a  little  stalk,  "  you  are 
mistaken.  There  is  no  such  tree  as  you  were  pleased 
to  mention.  That  palm  is  '  Attalea  Princeps,'  a  native  of 
Brazil." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  the  Brazilian,  **  I  quite  believe  you. 


126  ATTALEA  PRINCEPS 

I  quite  believe  that  botanists  call  it  Attalea,  but  it  has  a 
proper  native  name." 

"  The  proper  name  is  that  which  is  given  by  science," 
replied  the  botanist  frigidly,  and  he  locked  the  door  of 
his  little  sentry-box  so  that  he  should  not  be  disturbed 
by  people  incapable  even  of  understanding  that  if  a  man 
of  science  says  something  they  must  keep  silence  and 
listen. 

But  the  Brazilian  long  stood  and  gazed  at  the  palm,  and 
he  became  more  and  more  sad.  He  recalled  his  native 
land,  its  sunny  skies,  its  luxuriant  forests  with  their 
wondrous  denizens,  its  birds,  its  open  prairies,  and  magic 
southern  nights.  And  he  recalled  that  he  had  never  been 
really  happy  outside  the  land  of  his  birth  although  he  had 
toured  the  world.  He  touched  the  palm  with  his  hand 
as  if  bidding  it  farewell,  and  left  the  garden.  The  next 
day  he  started  off  by  steamer  for  "  home." 

But  the  palm  remained.  Life  became  even  more 
burdensome  to  it  now,  although  before  this  incident  it 
had  been  very  grievous.  It  towered  five  sajenes  above 
the  tops  of  all  the  other  plants,  and  those  other  plants 
did  not  love  it.  They  were  jealous,  and  considered  the 
palm  proud.  This  growth  caused  the  palm  nothing  but 
sorrow.  Apart  from  the  fact  that  the  other  plants  were 
all  together  and  it  was  alone,  the  palm  best  of  all  remem- 
bered its  native  skies,  and  mourned  for  them  more  than 
any  of  the  others,  because  it  was  the  nearest  of  all  to 
that  which  supplanted  those  skies — a  disgusting  glass 
roof.  Through  it  the  palm  occasionally  saw  something 
blue  ;  it  was  the  sky,  strange  and  pale,  yet  for  all  that 
genuine  blue  sky.  And  when  the  plants  talked  amongst 
themselves  Attalea  always  kept  silent,  fretted,  and 
thought  only  of  how  good  it  would  be  to  stand  even  under 
this  pitiful  heaven. 

"  Tell  me,  please,  will  they  soon  water  us  ?"  inquired 
a  sago-palm  which  was  very  fond  of  moisture.  **  I  really 
think  I  shall  wither  up  to-day." 


ATTALEA  PRINCEPS  127 

'*  Your  words,  my  dear  neighbour,  astonish  me,"  said 
a  pot-bellied  cactus.  ''Do  you  really  mean  that  the 
enormous  quantity  of  water  which  they  pour  over  you 
every  day  is  insufficient  ?  Look  at  me  !  They  give  me 
very  little,  but  all  the  same  I  am  fresh  and  full  of  sap." 

"  We  are  not  accustomed  to  be  over-careful,"  replied 
the  sago-palm.  ''  We  cannot  grow  in  such  dry  and  vile 
soil  as  do  certain  cacti.  We  are  not  accustomed  to  live 
in  hand-to-mouth  style  ;  moreover,  apart  from  all  this,  I 
may  mention  that  you  are  requested  not  to  make 
remarks."  Having  said  this,  the  sago-palm  took  huff, 
and  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  broke  in  a  cinnamon,  "  I 
am  practically  satisfied  with  my  position.  Of  course  it 
is  dull,  but  at  least  I  am  sure  that  no  one  will  strip  me." 

"  But  they  used  not  to  strip  all  of  us,"  said  a  tree-fern. 
*'  Of  course,  to  many  even  this  prison  would  appear 
Paradise  after  the  miserable  existence  which  they  led 
when  free." 

Thereupon  the  cinnamon,  forgetting  that  they  used  to 
strip  her,  became  offended,  and  started  quarrelling.  Some 
of  the  plants  took  her  side  and  some  took  the  part  of  the 
tree-fern,  and  a  livety  exchange  of  abuse  commenced. 
They  would  undoubtedly  have  come  to  blows  had  they 
been  able  to  move. 

*'  Why  are  you  quarrelling  ?"  asked  Attalea.  "  Does 
it  really  help  you  in  any  way  ?  You  only  increase  your 
unhappiness  by  being  spiteful  and  losing  your  tempers. 
Far  better  to  drop  your  quarrels  and  think.  Listen  to 
me  !  Grow  taller  and  wider,  throw  out  branches,  press 
against  the  iron  framework  and  glass  panes,  and  then  our 
greenhouse  will  break  up  into  bits,  and  we  shall  gain 
freedom.  If  only  one  branch  presses  against  the  glass 
they  will,  of  course,  cut  it  off,  but  what  will  they  do  with 
a  hundred  strong  and  daring  trunks  ?  It  is  only  necessary 
to  be  more  friendly  and  to  work  together,  and  victory 
is  ours  1" 


X 


128  ATTALEA  PRINCEPS 

At  first  no  one  answered  the  palm.  All  kept  silent,  not 
knowing  what  to  say.  At  last  the  sago-palm  made  up 
her  mind. 

"  All  ridiculous  nonsense  !"  she  declared. 

**  Ridiculous  !  Nonsense  !"  the  trees  chimed  in,  and 
everybody  at  one  and  the  same  time  began  to  prove  to 
Attalea  that  its  proposal  was  awful  nonsense. 

"  An  impracticable  dream  !"  they  cried.  "  Bosh  ! 
Absurd  !  The  framework  is  solid,  and  we  shall  never 
break  it,  and  even  if  we  did,  what  then  ?  Men  would 
come  with  knives  and  axes,  lop  off  our  boughs,  mend  the 
framework,  and  all  would  go  on  as  before.  All  that  would 
happen  is  that  they  would  cut  whole  branches  off  us.  .  .  ." 

**  Well,  as  you  like  !"  replied  Attalea.  "  Now  I  know 
what  to  do.  I  shall  leave  you  all  alone.  Live  how  you 
like,  growl  at  each  other,  argue  about  sips  of  water,  and 
stay  for  ever  under  a  glass  dome.  I  alone  will  find  a  way 
for  myself.  I  want  to  see  the  sky  and  sun  direct,  not 
through  this  glass  and  grating  .  .  .  and  I  will." 

And  the  palm  proudly  glanced  with  her  green  top  at 
the  forest  of  comrades  displayed  below.  No  one  dared 
say  anything,  only  the  sago-palm  quietly  whispered  to  her 
neighbour  :  "  Well,  we  shall  see — we  shall  see  how  they 
will  cut  off  her  big  head  so  that  she  does  not  get  too 
conceited,  Miss  Proud  !" 

The  others,  although  they  kept  silent,  were  ajigr37  with 
Attalea  for  her  haughty  words.  Only  one  little  herb  was 
not  angry  with  the  palm,  and  not  offended  with  what  she 
had  said.  It  was  the  most  pitiful,  contemptible  herb 
of  all  the  plants  in  the  greenhouse,  pale  and  poor,  a 
creeper  with  fading,  thickish  leaves.  There  was  nothing 
remarkable  about  it ;  and  it  was  only  used  in  the  green- 
house to  hide  the  bare  soil.  It  had  made  itself  the  foot- 
stool of  the  big  palm,  and,  listening  to  her,  it  seemed  to 
the  herb  that  Attalea  was  right.  It  did  not  know  any- 
thing of  Southern  Nature,  but  it  loved  air  and  freedom. 
The  greenhouse  was  a  prison  for  it  also.     "  If  I,  an  insig- 


ATTALEA  PRINCEPS  129 

nificanc  faded  herb,  suffer  so  without  my  own  grey  sky, 
without  my  pale  sun  and  cold  rain,  what  must  this  beauti- 
ful and  powerful  palm  suffer  ?"  So  thought  the  herb, 
cUid  it  tenderly  entwined  itself  around  the  palm,  caressing 
her  the  while.  "  Why  am  I  not  a  great  tree  ?  I  would 
listen  to  the  advice.  We  would  grow  together,  and 
together  go  out  into  freedom.  Then  the  others  would 
see  that  Attalea  was  right."  But  it  was  not  a  great  tree, 
only  a  little  faded  herb.  It  could  only  entwine  itself 
still  more  tenderly  round  the  trunk  of  Attalea,  and  whisper 
words  of  love  to  her  and  wishes  for  success  in  her  efforts. 

"  Of  course,  with  us  it  is  nothing  like  so  warm  ;  the 
sky  is  not  so  clear,  the  rain  is  not  so  luxurious  as  in  your 
country,  but  for  all  that  we,  too,  have  a  sky,  a  sun,  a 
breeze.  We  have  not  such  gorgeous  plants  as  you  and 
your  companions  are,  v/ith  such  gigantic  leaves  and 
beautiful  blossoms,  but  we  also  have  very  nice  trees — • 
pines,  firs,  and  birches.  I  am  a  little  herb,  and  shall  never 
attain  freedom,  but  you  are  so  great  and  strong  !  Your 
trunk  is  solid,  and  it  will  not  be  very  long  before  you 
grow  up  to  the  glass  roof.  You  will  break  it,  and  get 
out  into  God's  world.  Then  you  will  let  me  know  if  it 
is  all  as  beautiful  there  still  as  it  used  to  be.  I  shall  be 
content  with  this." 

'*  Why,  little  herb,  do  you  not  wish  to  come  out  with 
me  ?  My  body  is  firm  and  strong  ;  lean  on  it,  climb  up 
me.     It  will  mean  nothing  to  me  to  carry  you." 

"  No  ;  where  could  I  go  ?  Look  at  me  !  See  how  faded 
I  am,  and  how  weak  !  I  cannot  rise  even  to  one  of  your 
branches.  No,  I  am  no  mate  for  you.  Grow  and  be 
happy  !  Only  when  you  go  out  into  freedom  I  beg  you 
sometimes  to  remember  your  little  friend." 

Then  the  palm  set  to  work  to  grow,  and  former  visitors 
to  the  greenhouse  were  astonished  when  they  came  again 
at  its  gigantic  growth.  It  grew  taller  and  taUer  with 
every  month.  The  Director  of  the  botanical  gardens 
attributed  this  rapidity  of  growth  to  the  excellent  care 

9 


130  ATTALEA  PRINCEPS 

bestowed  on  it,  and  was  proud  of  the  skill  with  which  he 
managed  the  greenhouse  and  did  his  business. 

"  Yes,  look  at  Attalea  Princeps,"  he  would  say  ;  "  such 
well-grown  specimens  are  rarely  met  with  even  in  Brazil. 
We  have  applied  all  our  knowledge  to  ensure  that  the 
plants  shall  develop  in  the  greenhouse  just  as  freely  as 
when  wild  ;  and  it  seems  to  me  we  have  attained  a  certain 
measure  of  success." 

And  with  a  satisfied  air  he  would  strike  the  solid  tree 
with  his  walking-stick,  and  the  blows  would  resound 
loudly  through  the  greenhouse.  The  leaves  of  the  palm 
used  to  shake  from  these  blows,  and,  oh  !  if  only  the  palm 
could  have  groaned,  what  a  howl  of  hate  the  Director 
would  have  heard. 

"  He  imagines  that  I  am  growing  for  his  delectation,'* 
thought  Attalea  ;  ''  well,  let  him." 

And  it  grew,  expending  all  its  sap  in  order  to  extend 
itself,  and  thereby  depriving  its  roots  and  leaves  of 
moisture.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  the  palm  that  the 
distance  to  the  dome  was  not  decreasing.  Then  it  put 
forth  all  its  strength,  and  the  framework  became  closer 
and  closer,  and  finally  a  young  leaf  touched  the  cold  glass 
and  iron. 

"  Look  !  look  !"  said  the  plants,  **  where  she  has  got 
to  !     Does  she  really  mean  to  do  it  ?" 

"  How  wonderfully  she  has  grown  !"  said  the  tree-fern. 

**  What  is  there  wonderful  in  her  having  grown  up  ? 
There  is  nothing  wonderful  in  that  !  Now,  if  she  knew 
how  to  swell  herself  out  like  me,"  said  a  portly  sicada, 
with  a  trunk  like  a  round  O.  "  And  what's  the  good  of 
stretching  herself  out  ?  What  will  happen  ?  Nothing 
will  happen.  It's  all  the  same.  The  bars  are  solid  and 
firm,  and  the  glass  thick." 

Another  month  went  by.  Attalea  continued  to  grow 
and  raise  herself.  At  last  it  was  solidly  against  the 
framework.  It  could  go  no  farther.  Then  the  trunk 
began  to  bend.     Its  leafy  top  doubled  up,  and  the  cold 


ATTALEA  PRINCEPS  131 

framework  pierced  into  the  tender  young  leaves,  cut 
through  them,  and  deformed  them,  but  the  palm  was 
obstinate,  and  did  not  spare  its  leaves.  Notwithstanding 
everything  it  continued  to  press  against  the  bars,  and  the 
bars  were  already  yielding  although  they  were  made  out 
of  strong  iron. 

The  little  herb  followed  the  struggle  with  attention, 
and  almost  swooned  from  excitement. 

*'  Tell  me,"  it  said,  "  surely  it  is  painful  for  you  ?  If 
the  framework  is  so  solid,  would  it  not  be  better  to  give 
it  up  ?"  it  inquired  of  the  palm. 

**  Painful  ?  What  does  it  matter  whether  it  is  painful 
or  not  when  I  wish  to  gain  my  freedom  ?  Did  not  you 
yourself  encourage  me  ?"  replied  the  palm. 

"  Yes,  yeS;  but  I  did  not  know  it  would  be  so  difficult. 
I  am  sorry  for  you.     You  are  suffering  so." 

"  Silence,  weak  plant !  Do  not  pity  me.  I  shall 
free  myself  or  die  !" 

And  at  that  very  moment  there  was  a  resounding 
crash.  A  thick  iron  bar  had  given  way.  Splinters  of 
glass  scattered  around,  and  came  ringing  down.  One 
splinter  hit  the  Director's  hat  as  he  was  leaving  the 
greenhouse. 

**  What  was  that  ?"  he  exclaimed  with  a  shudder,  as  he 
saw  portions  of  glass  flying  through  the  air.  He  ran  out 
of  the  greenhouse,  and  looked  up  at  the  roof.  The  green 
crown  of  the  palm  had  straightened  itself,  and  was 
proudly  protruding  above  the  glass  dome. 

"  Only  this,"  she  thought,  "  and  is  it  only  for  this  that 
I  have  suffered  so  much  and  tortured  myself  so  long  ? 
To  attain  which  has  been  my  greatest  and  highest  aim  !" 

It  was  mid-autumn  when  Attalea  straightened  her  top 
through  the  opening  made.  It  was  sleeting,  a  mixture  of 
rain  and  snow.  The  wind  was  driving  along  low  grey 
masses  of  clouds.  It  seemed  to  the  palm  that  they  would 
seize  her.  The  trees  were  already  bare,  and  resembled 
shapeless  skeletons.     Only  the  pines  and  firs  retained 


132  ATTALEA  PRINCEPS 

their  dark  green  tips.  The  trees  looked  at  the  palm 
sullenly.  "  You  will  be  frozen,"  they  seemed  to  say  to 
her.  "  You  do  not  know  what  frost  is  ;  you  will  not  be 
able  to  stand  it.  Why  have  you  come  out  of  your  hot- 
house ?" 

And  Attalea  understood  that  all  was  ended  for  her. 
She  became  numbed  with  the  cold.  Would  it  not  be 
better  to  return  under  the  roof  ?  But  she  was  no  longer 
able  to  return.  She  would  have  to  stand  in  the  cold  wind, 
feel  its  gusts  and  the  biting  touch  of  snowflakes.  She 
would  have  to  gaze  at  the  drab  sky,  at  beggarly  Nature, 
at  the  unsavoury  back-yard  of  the  botanical  garden,  at 
the  huge  wearisome  town  looming  through  the  fog,  and 
wait  until  people  below  in  the  greenhouse  decided  what 
to  do  with  her. 

The  Director  gave  instructions  to  saw  the  palm  down. 
"  We  could  build  a  special  dome  over  it,"  he  said,  "  but 
w^ould  it  be  for  long  ?  It  would  again  grow  up  and  smash 
everything.  Besides  which  it  would  cost  far  too  much. 
Saw  it  down." 

They  fastened  ropes  round  the  palm  so  that  when  it 
fell  it  should  not  destroy  the  walls  of  the  greenhouse,  and 
low  down  at  its  very  roots  they  sawed  it  through.  The 
little  herb  which  had  grown  around  the  trunk  did  not 
wish  to  part  from  its  friend,  and  also  fell  under  the  saw. 
When  they  dragged  the  palm  out  of  the  greenhouse,  the 
torn  stalks  and  leaves  spoilt  by  the  saw  fell  on  to  the 
stump  that  remained. 

"  Take  out  all  this  rubbish  and  throw  it  away,"  said 
the  Director.  "  It  has  already  turned  yellow,  and  the 
saw  has  quite  spoilt  it.  We  will  plant  something  new 
here." 

I*  One  of  the  gardeners,  by  a  clever  stroke  of  a  hook, 
pulled  up  the  bunch  of  herb,  placed  it  in  a  basket,  carried 
it  out,  and  threw  it  into  the  back-yard  right  on  to  the 
dead  palm  which  was  lying  in  the  mud  half  buried  by 
snow . 


IX 

"  MAKE-BELIEVE '' 

(that  which  was  not) 

One  beautiful  June  day — and  it  was  beautiful  because 
there  were  twenty-eight  degrees  Reamur — one  beautiful 
June  day  it  was  hot  everywhere,  but  on  a  little  plot  in  the 
garden,  where  there  stood  a  mound  of  recently-mown 
hay,  it  was  still  hotter,  because  this  spot  was  screened 
from  any  breeze  by  a  thick,  extremely  thick,  cherry 
orchard.  Almost  everything  was  sleeping.  The  men 
and  women,  having  had  their  midday  fill,  were  lying  on 
their  sides  busily  engaged  in  that  profound  meditation 
which  generally  follows  the  noonday  meal.  The  birds 
were  silent ;  even  numbers  of  the  insects  were  hiding  from 
the  heat,  and  as  regards  the  domestic  animals,  **  it  goes 
without  the  saying.'*  The  cattle,  large  and  small,  were 
taking  refuge  under  eaves.  A  dog  which  had  dug  a  hole 
under  a  barn  had  betaken  himself  thither,  and  with  half- 
closed  eyes  was  stretched  out,  breathing  spasmodicalty, 
and  showing  nearly  half  an  arshin  of  crimson  tongue. 
From  time  to  time,  no  doubt  from  boredom  caused  by 
the  stifling  heat,  he  yawned  to  such  an  extent  as  to  give 
little  yelps.  The  pigs,  mamma  with  thirteen  children,  had 
gone  off  to  the  river,  and  were  lying  embedded  in  greasy 
black  ooze,^  showing^  only  a  row  of  sniffling,  grunting 
snouts,''  long  dirty  ba1:ks,  and  huge  flapping  ears.  Only 
the  hens,  fearless  of  the  heat,  were  endeavouring  to  kill 

133 


134  "MAKE-BELIEVE" 

time  by  scratching  up  the  dust  opposite  the  kitchen  door, 
in  which  there  was  not,  as  they  well  knew,  even  one  single 
tiny  grain,  and  things  must  have  been  going  very  badly 
with  one  of  the  cocks,  because  from  time  to  time  he 
assumed  a  ridiculous  attitude,  and  at  the  top  of  his  voice 
called  out  :  "  What  a  scandal !" 

We  had  come  out  of  this  plot  where  it  was  hottest  of 
all,  but  a  whole  company  of  non-slumbering  individuals 
were  sitting  there.  That  is  to  say,  not  all  were  sitting. 
The  old  bay  horse,  for  instance,  who,  from  fear  for  his  sides 
of  the  whip  wielded  by  the  coachman,  Anton,  had  been 
raking  up  the  hay,  being  a  horse,  was  quite  unable  to  sit 
down.  A  caterpillar,  the  grub  of  some  kind  of  butterfly, 
was  resting  on  its  belly  rather  than  sitting  ;  however,  it 
is  not  a  matter  of  words.  A  small  but  very  serious 
gathering  had  assembled  under  a  cherry-tree — a  snail,  a 
beetle,  a  lizard,  and  the  caterpillar  already  mentioned. 
A  grasshopper  also  hopped  up,  and  near  by  stood  the  old 
bay  listening  to  the  speeches  with  one  bay  ear  lined 
inside  with  dark  grey  hairs  turned  towards  them.  There 
w^ere  also  two  flies  sitting  on  the  bay  horse. 

The  gathering  was  politely,  but  quite  excitedly, 
debating  some  question.  As  was  proper,  no  one  agreed 
with  the  other,  as  each  highly  prized  the  independence  of 
his  opinion  and  character. 

'*  In  my  opinion,"  said  the  beetle,  "  a  properly  con- 
ducted animal  should  first  and  before  all  busy  himself 
about  his  posterity.  Life  is  labour  for  the  future 
generation.  He  who  wittingly  carries  out  the  obligations 
laid  upon  him  by  Nature  stands  upon  sure  ground.  He 
knows  his  business,  and  whatever  may  happen  will  not 
be  answerable  for  the  future.  Look  at  me  !  Who  works 
harder  than  I  do  ?  Who  for  whole  days  rolls  such  a 
heavy  ball — a  ball  made  so  ingeniously  by  me  of  manure 
for  the  great  purpose  of  rendering  it  possible  for  future 
beetles  like  myself  to  be  born  ?  I  do  not  think  anybody 
could  say  with  so  calm  a  conscience  and  so  clean  a  heart 


"  MAKE-BELIEVE  "  135 

as  I  can  when  new  beetles  appear,  *  Yes,  I  have  done  all 
that  I  should  or  could  have  done  in  this  world/  That  is 
work." 

"  Go  to,  brother,  with  your  work !"  said  an  ant, 
which,  during  the  beetle's  speech  and  notwithstanding 
the  heat,  had  been  dragging  along  a  wonderful  piece  of 
dry  stalk.  It  was  resting  for  a  moment,  sitting  on  its 
four  hind-legs,  and  with  its  two  fore-legs  was  wiping  the 
perspiration  from  its  troubled  face.  *'  I,  for  one,  work 
more  than  you  do  !  You  work  for  yourself,  or  at  all 
events  for  your  species.  We  are  not  all  so  happily  situ- 
ated. You  should  try  to  drag  beams  along  for  the  public, 
like  I  am  doing.  I  myself  do  not  know  what  compels 
me  to  work,  exhausting  my  strength  even  in  this  awful 
heat. ...  No  one  will  say  thank  you  for  it.  We  unhappy 
toiling  ants,  we  all  work,  and  in  what  way  is  our  life 
beautiful  ?     Fate.  .  .  . 

"  You,  beetle,  are  too  severe,  and  you,  ant,  are  too 
pessimistic  in  your  views  of  life,"  broke  in  the  grasshopper. 
*'  No,  beetle,  I  love  to  chirrup  and  jump,  and  no  con- 
science, nothing,  torments  or  worries  me.  Moreover,  you 
have  not  in  any  way  touched  the  question  put  by  Madame 
Lizard.  She  inquired,  *  W^hat  is  the  world  ?'  and  you 
talk  about  your  manure-composed  balls.  It  is  even 
impolite.  The  world  in  my  opinion  is  a  very  nice  place, 
because  there  is  young  grass  in  it  for  us,  and  sun,  and 
breezes.  .  .  .  Yes,  and  how  large  it  is !  You  here 
amongst  these  trees  can  have  no  conception  of  its  size. 
When  I  am  in  a  field  I  sometimes  jump  as  high  as  I  can, 
and  I  assure  you  I  attain  an  enormous  height.  And  from 
it  I  observe  that  the  world  has  no  limit." 

"  True,  true,"  affirmed  the  bay  impressively,  "  but 
none  of  you,  however,  will  ever  see  even  one-hundredth 
part  of  what  I  have  seen  in  my  time.  I  regret  you  cannot 
understand  what  is  meant  by  a  verst.  ...  A  verst 
from  here  is  a  village,  Luparevka,  where  I  go  every  day 
with  a  barrel  for  water.     But  they  never  feed  me  there. 


136  "  MAKE-BELIEVE  " 

Then  in  the  other  direction  there  are  Ephimovka  and 
KisHakovka.  In  Kishakovka  there  is  a  church  with  bells. 
Then  farther  on  there  is  Sviato-Troiska,  and  then 
Bogoiavlensk.  In  Bogoiavlensk  they  always  give  me 
hay,  only  it  is  of  poor  quality.  But,  Nicolaieff !  that  is  a 
town  for  you — twenty-eight  versts  from  here — there  the 
hay  is  better,  and  they  give  you  oats.  However,  I  do 
not  care  about  going  there.  Our  master  goes  there 
sometimes,  and  orders  the  coachman  to  hurry  up,  and 
the  coachman  hits  us  in  a  most  painful  manner  with  the 
whip.  .  ,  .  Then  there  is  also  Alexandrovka,  Bielozerk, 
and  Cherson,  also  a  town  .  .  .  only  how  can  you  under- 
stand all  this  !  That  is  the  world  ;  not  all,  we  will  admit, 
but  nevertheless  a  considerable  portion  of  it." 

The  bay  stopped  speaking,  but  his  lower  lip  continued 
to  quiver  as  if  he  was  still  whispering  something.  This 
was  due  to  old  age.  He  was  seventeen  years  old,  which 
age  for  a  horse  is  what  seventy-seven  years  of  age  would 
be  to  a  man. 

"  I  do  not  understand  your  sagacious,  equine  remarks, 
and  will  not  bother  to  try  and  understand,  but  will  accept 
them,"  said  the  snail.  "  As  long  as  there  is  burdock  for 
me  it  is  sufficient.  I  have  now  been  four  days  crawling 
on  this  plant,  and  I  have  not  finished  yet.  And  after  this 
burdock  is  finished  there  is  another,  and  in  it  I  am  sure 
a  snail  is  sitting.  And  that's  all.  To  jump  is  not 
necessary — that  is  all  imagination  and  frivolity  ;  sit  and 
eat  the  leaf  on  which  you  are  resting.  If  I  had  not  been 
lazy  in  crawling  I  should  long  ago  have  gone  away  from 
you  and  your  arguments.  One's  head  aches  from  them, 
and  nothing  more." 

"  No ;  allow  me  to  tell  you  why,"  interrupted^the  grass- 
hopper. "  It  is  so  pleasing  to  chirrup  a  little,  especially 
on  such  entrancing  subjects  as  infinity,  etc.  Of  course, 
there  are  practical  natures  which  only  trouble  about  how 
best  to  fill  their  insides,  such  as  you  or  this  beautiful 
caterpillar." 


"  MAKE-BELIEVE  "  137 

'*  Ah  no,  leave  me  in  peace ;  I  implore  you,  leave  me 
in  peace,  and  out  of  the  question  ;  do  not  bother  about 
me,"  querulously  cried  the  caterpillar.  "  I  am  doing 
this  for  the  future  life,  only  for  the  future  life." 

"  What  sort  of  a  future  life  ?"  inquired  the  bay. 

"  Can  it  be  you  do  not  know  that  after  death  I  become 
a  butterfly  with  multi-coloured  wings  ?" 

The  bay,  lizard,  and  snail  did  not  know  this,  but  the 
insects  had  a  kind  of  glimmering  knowledge  on  the  subject. 
And  all  kept  silent  for  a  short  time,  because  no  one  knew 
how  to  say  anything  to  the  point  respecting  the  future 
life. 

"  It  is  necessary  to  treat  strong  convictions  with 
respect,"  chirruped  the  grasshopper  at  length.  "  Does 
no  one  wish  to  say  anything  more  ?  Perhaps  you  ladies  ?*' 
and  he  turned  to  the  flies.     The  elder  of  them  answered  : 

'*  We  cannot  say  that  things  have  gone  badly  with  us. 
We  have  just  come  from  a  room  where  the  *  gude  wife  ' 
was  potting  jam,  and  we  settled  under  a  lid  and  had  our 
fill.  We  are  satisfied.  It  is  true  our  mamma  got 
entangled  in  the  jam,  but  what  is  to  be  done  ?  She  had 
already  lived  a  considerable  time  in  the  world,  and  we 
are  satisfied." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  lizard,  "I  am  of  the  opinion 
that  you  are  all  entirely  correct !  But,  on  the  other 
hand.  .  .  ." 

But  the  lizard  did  not  state  what  was  on  the  other 
hand,  because  she  felt  something  firmly  press  her  tail 
into  the  ground. 

This  was  the  coachman,  Anton,. who,  having  awakened, 
had  come  for  the  bay.  He  had  unwittingly  placed  his 
huge  foot  on  the  assemblage  and  squashed  it.  Only  the 
flies  escaped,  and  flew  away  to  buzz  of  their  deceased 
mother  departed  in  the  jam.  The  lizard  escaped,  but 
with  a  reduced  tail.  Anton  took  the  bay  by  the  forelock, 
and  led  him  out  of  the  garden  to  harness  him  up  to  the 
barrel,  and  go  for  water,  and  said  to  him,  "Get  on,  you 


138  "  MAKE-BELIEVE  " 

old  stump  V  to  which  the  bay  only  replied  by  whispering 
something  to  himself.  The  lizard  remained  without  a 
tail.  True  it  is  that  after  a  while  it  grew  again,  but  it 
always  remained  somewhat  blunted  and  blackish  in 
colour,  and  whenever  she  was  asked  how  she  had  damaged 
her  tail,  she  used  to  reply  : 

"  They  tore  it  off  because  I  dared  to  express  my 
convictions." 

And  she  was  quite  correct. 


X 

OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT 

**  Undress  !"  said  the  doctor  to  Nikita,  who  was  standing 
motionless,  his  eyes  fixed  on  space.  Nikita  gave  a  start, 
and  hurriedly  commenced  to  unfasten  his  clothes. 

**  A  bit  faster,  friend  !"  cried  the  doctor  impatiently  ; 
"  you  see  what  a  lot  of  you  there  are  here." 

He  pointed  to  the  crowd  in  the  room. 

"  Turn  round  !  .  .  .  Lost  your  senses  ?"  added  by  way 
of  assistance  the  N. CO.  who  was  taking  the  measurements. 

Nikita  made  even  more  haste,  threw  off  his  shirt  and 
trousers,  and  stood  in  a  state  of  nature.  That  there  is 
nothing  more  beautiful  than  the  human  form  has  often 
been  said  by  someone,  somewhen,  and  somewhere,  but  if  he 
who  first  made  this  pronouncement  had  lived  in  the 
seventies,  and  had  seen  the  naked  Nikita,  he  would 
certainly  have  retracted  his  words. 

Before  the  Military  Service  Commission  there  stood  a 
little  man  with  a  disproportionately  large  stomach,  a 
legacy  from  generations  of  ancestors  who  had  never 
tasted  pure  bread — and  long  withered  arms  furnished 
with  huge  black  knotted  fists.  His  long  awkward  body 
was  supporte  d  by  very  short  bandy  legs,  and  the  whole 
figure  was  crowne  d  by  a  head  .  .  .  what  a  head  it  was  ! 
The  facial  bones  ha  d  been  developed  at  the  expense  of 
the  skull.  His  forehead  was  low  and  narrow,  and  his 
eyes,  without  brows  or  lashes,  were  little  more  than  slits. 
On  an  enormous  flat  face  forlornly  sat  a  little  round  nose 

139 


140         OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT 

which,  although  carried  high,  not  only  failed  to  give  the 
face  an  t^xpression  of  haughtiness,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
made  it  look  still  more  woeful.  The  mouth,  in  contrast 
to  the  nose,  was  enormous,  and  presented  the  appearance 
of  a  shapeless  chasm,  unadorned,  notwithstanding 
Nikita's  twenty  years,  by  one  single  hair.  Nikita  stood 
with  his  head  lowered,  his  shoulders  forward,  his  arms 
hanging  like  whipcords  by  his  sides,  and  his  feet  slightly 
turned  in. 

"  Ape  !"  said  a  rather  stout,  brisk-mannered  Colonel, 
the  military  head  of  the  Commission,  leaning  towards  a 
spare  young  man  with  a  handsome  beard,  a  member  of 
the  Zemstvo  Board,  "  a  regular  ape  !" 

"  A  splendid  confirmation  of  Darwin's  theory,"  mur- 
mured the  Zemstvo  official,  to  which  the  Colonel  loudly 
assented,  and  turned  to  the  doctor. 

"  Well,  of  course  he  is  fit  !  He  is  sound,"  replied  the 
latter. 

"  Only  he  will  not  go  to  the  Guards,  ha,  ha,  ha  !"  said 
the  Colonel,  laughing  heartily,  but  not  unkindly ;  then, 
turning  to  Nikita,  he  added  in  a  quiet  tone  :  "  Present 
yourself  here  in  a  fortnight's  time.  The  next  man, 
Par  fen  Semenoff,  undress  !" 

Nikita  began  slowly  to  dress  himself  ;  his  arms  and  legs 
were  all  over  the  place,  and  refused  to  do  as  bid.  He 
kept  whispering  something  to  himself,  but  precisely  what 
it  was  he  himself  probably  did  not  know.  He  understood 
only  that  they  had  declared  him  fit  for  service,  and  that 
within  a  fortnight  they  would  drive  him  from  home  for 
some  years.  Only  this  was  in  his  head,  and  only  this 
thought  pierced  its  way  through  the  maze  and  stupor  in 
which  he  was  enveloped.  Finally,  having  successfully 
reduced  his  arms  to  obedience,  he  put  on  his  belt,  and 
left  the  room  in  which  the  medical  examination  was 
taking  place.  A  little  doubled-up  old  man  of  some  sixty 
years  of  age  met  him  in  the  passage. 

"  Have  they  taken  you  ?"  he  asked. 


OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT        141 

Nikita  did  not  answer,  and  the  old  man  knew  that  it 
was  so,  and  did  not  ask  any  more  questions.  They  went 
out  into  the  street.  It  was  a  bright  frosty  day.  A 
crowd  of  moujiks  and  babas  were  standing  about 
waiting.  Many  were  stamping  their  feet,  and  beating 
themselves  with  their  arms  to  keep  warm.  The  snow 
crunched  under  their  bast  shoes  and  boots,  and  steam 
was  rising  from  their  heads  enveloped  in  shawls  and  from 
the  little  shaggy  ponies  which  had  brought  their  masters 
in  from  the  surrounding  villages. 

The  smoke  from  the  chimneys  in  the  little  town  was 
rising  in  straight  tall  columns. 

*'  Have  they  taken  yours,  Ivan  ?"  inquired  an  old 
man,  a  sturdy-looking  moujik  in  a  new  tanned  coat,  a 
big  sheepskin  cap,  and  good  boots. 

**  They  have  taken  him.  Ilia  Savelich,  taken  him.     It 
was  God's  will  to  do  us  this  injury." 
*'  What  win  you  do  now  ?" 

**  What  is  there  to  do  ?     The  will  of  God  .  .  .  there  was 

one  helper  in  the  family,  and  now  he's  gone  .  .  .  and  ..." 

Ivan  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand. 

**  You   should   have   adopted   him   sooner,"   said   Ilia 

Savelich,  with  an  air  of  conviction,  **  then  he  would  have 

been  saved." 

**  Who  knew  of  it  ?  We  knew  nothing.  He  was 
instead  of  my  son,  and  once  again  the  only  helper  in 
the  family.  ...  I  thought  that  for  this  reason  the 
gentleman  would  have  allowed  it.  'No,  no,'  he  said, 
*  impossible,  because  it  is  the  law.'  *  How  can  it  be  the 
law,  Your  Excellency,'  I  said,  *  when  his  wife  is  in  labour  ? 
Besides,  Your  Excellency,'  I  said,  *  it  is  impossible  for 
me,  one  .  .  .'  *  No,  we  know  nothing  of  this,'  he  said, 
'  and  by  the  law  as  it  stands  he  is  an  orphan,  alone,  and 
so  he  must  serve.  Who  is  to  blame,'  he  said,  *  that  he 
has  a  wife  and  son  ?     If  he  chose  to  marry  when  he  was 

fifteen ' 

**  I  wanted  to  explain  to  him,  but  he  would  not  listen, 


143         OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT 

and  got  angry.  '  Go,  go  away/  he  said,  '  there  is  plenty 
of  work  without  you  bothering  me.  .  .  .'  What  is  to  be 
done  ?  .  .  .     God's  will." 

"  Yours  was  a  quiet  young  fellow  ?" 

"  Yes,  quiet  and  hard-working,  and  never  have  I  heard 
a  word  in  argument  from  him.  Ilia,  as  I  tell  you  ,  .  . 
he  has  been  better  than  a  son  to  me.  This  is  our  grief. 
.  .  .  God  sent  him,  and  God  has  taken  him  away.  .  .  . 
Good-bye,  Ilia  Savelich ;  and  yours,  will  they  look  at 
him  soon  ?" 

"  That  depends  on  the  authorities  .  .  .  only  they  cannot 
call  my  son  fit.     He  is  a  cripple." 

"  That's  your  happiness.  Ilia  Savelich." 

*'  Eh,  but  what  are  you  saying  !  Are  you  not  afraid 
to  say  that  ?  Eh,  eh,  '  happiness  '  that  a  son  was  born 
lame." 

**  Well,  Ilia  Savelich,  it  has  turned  out  for  the  better  ; 
he  will  always  be  at  home.  Good-bye,  and  good  health 
to  you." 

"  Good-bye,  friend  .  . .  and  what  about  that  little  loan  ? 
Have  you  forgotten  it  ?" 

"  Impossible,  Ilia  Savelich  .  .  .  that  is — cannot  be 
done.  It  is  only  a  trifle  ;  you  can  wait,  and  we  are  in 
such  trouble.  ..." 

'*  All  right !  all  right  !  we  will  talk  about  it  another 
time.     Good-bye,  Ivan  Petrovich." 

"  Good-bye,  Ilia  Savelich,  good  health  to  you." 

Nikita  at  this  moment  untied  the  horse  from  the  post 
to  which  it  was  fastened,  and  he,  wath  his  adopted  father, 
settled  themselves  in  the  sleigh,  and  started  off.  It  was 
fifteen  versts  to  their  village.  The  little  pony  went  along 
bravely,  throwing  up  balls  of  snow  with  his  hoofs,  which 
broke  up  in  their  flight,  falling  in  showers  on  Nikita. 
But  Nikita  lay  silent  near  his  father,  wrapped  up  in  his 
sheepskin,  without  saying  a  word.  Twice  the  old  man 
spoke  to  him,  but  received  no  reply.  He  seemed  to  have 
become  petrified,  and  gazed  fixedly  at  the  snow,  as  if 


OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT         143 

seeking  in  it  some  point  forgotten  by  him  in  the  rooms 
of  the  Commission. 

Having  arrived,  they  went  straight  into  the  hut  and 
gave  the  news.  The  family,  which  consisted,  in  addition 
to  the  men,  of  three  women  and  three  children  of  Ivan 
Petrovich's  son  who  had  died  last  year,  commenced  to 
wail. 

Nikita's  wife,  Praskovia,  collapsed.  The  women  cried 
for  a  whole  week.  How  this  week  passed  for  Nikita  no 
one  knows,  because  the  whole  time  he  maintained  a  rigid 
silence,  his  face  preserving  the  same  set  expression  of 
submissive  despair. 

Eventually  it  all  came  to  an  end.  Ivan  took  the 
recruit  to  the  town,  and  handed  him  over  at  the  mustering- 
place.  Two  days  later  Nikita,  one  of  a  party  of  recruits, 
marched  over  the  snowdrifts  along  the  main  road  to  the 
provincial  capital  where  the  regiment  to  which  he  had 
been  drafted  was  quartered.  He  was  clothed  in  a  new 
short  half-shuba,  in  trousers  of  thick  black  material, 
new  valenkies,  a  cap,  and  mitts.  In  his  wallet, 
besides  two  changes  of  linen  and  some  pies,  there  lay  a 
rouble  note  carefully  wrapped  up  in  a  handkerchief. 
Nikita  was  indebted  for  all  this  to  his  adopted  father, 
Ivan  Petrovich,  who  had  implored  Ilia  Savelich  to  make 
him  a  further  advance  so  as  to  equip  Nikita  for  service. 
***** 

Nikita  proved  to  be  a  very  poor  recruit.  The  in- 
structor to  whom  he  was  handed  over  for  his  preliminary 
drills  was  in  despair.  Notwithstanding  every  con- 
ceivable explanation  on  his  part  to  Nikita,  amongst 
which  cuffs  and  blows  played  a  certain  role,  his  pupil 
could  not  even  entirely  master  the  not  difficult  problem 
of  forming  fours.  The  figure  of  Nikita  dressed  up  in 
uniform  presented  a  sorry  spectacle.  In  front  of  him 
projected  his  stomach,  and  in  his  efforts  to  draw  it  in  he 
threw  out  his  chest,  leaning  forward  with  his  whole  body 
at  an  angle  which  threatened  to  bring  him  down  face 


144         OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT 

forwards  to  the  ground.  Knock  him  about  as  they  would, 
the  authorities  could  not  make  out  of  Nikita  even  a  most 
indifferent  front-rank  man.  During  company  drill  his 
Captain,  having  abused  Nikita,  would  "  tell  off  "  the 
section  N.C.O.,  who  would  pass  it  on  to  Nikita.  The 
punishment  awarded  consisted  of  extra  "  fatigues."  Soon, 
however,  the  N.C.O.  guessed  that  this  was  no  punishment, 
but  a  pleasure  to  Nikita.  He  was  a  wonderful  worker, 
and  the  duties  of  carrying  wood  and  water,  attending  the 
stores,  but  chiefly  keeping  the  barrack  quarters  clean — i.e., 
endless  swabbing  the  floors  with  a  damp  mop — were  to  his 
liking.  At  any  rate,  whilst  performing  this  work  he  was 
not  obliged  to  think  how  not  to  get  out  of  step,  and  not 
to  go  left  when  the  command  was  "  Right  turn,"  and, 
besides,  he  felt  quite  safe  from  terrifying  questions  on 
that  wonderful  science  known  in  soldier's  language  as 
"  literature,"  such  as  :  "  What  is  a  soldier  ?"  '*  What  is  a 
colour  ?" 

Nikita  knew  quite  well  what  were  colours.  He  was 
prepared  with  all  possible  zeal  to  carry  out  his  obhgations 
and  duties  as  a  soldier,  and  would  probably  have  given 
his  life  in  defence  of  the  colours,  but  to  define  them 
verbatim  as  set  forth  in  the  book  was  beyond  him. 

"  The  colour  is  .  .  .  which  colour,  colour  ..."  he  used 
to  murmur,  endeavouring  as  far  as  possible  to  straighten 
out  his  clumsy  body,  poking  out  his  chin,  and  screwing 
up  his  eyes  bare  of  all  lashes. 

"  Fool !"  would  cry  the  consumptive  N.C.O.  giving 
the  lesson.  *'  Am  I  to  teach  you  your  alphabet  ? 
How  much  longer  am  I  to  be  tormented  with  you  ? 
You  idiot  !  you  clodhopper  !  Tfy  !  .  .  .  How  many 
times  must  I  repeat  it  to  you  ?  Now  say  it  after  me — 
the  colour  is  a  sacred  banner.  ..." 

Nikita  could  not  repeat  even  these  few  words.  The 
threatening  aspect  of  the  N.C.O.  and  his  shouting  had  a 
stupefying  effect  on  him.  There  was  a  ringing  in  his 
ears,   stars  were  dancing   before   his   eyes.     He   heard 


OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT         145 

nothing  of  the  definition  of  a  colour  ;  his  hps  did  not 
move.     He  stood  silent. 

"  Go  on ;  the  D take  you  !    The  colour  is  a  sacred 

banner." 

**  The  colour  .  .  ." 

*'Well?  .  .  ." 

"...  Banner  .  .  ."  continued  Nikita  in  a  trembling 
voice,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Is  a  sacred  banner  !"  yelled  the  maddened  N.C.O. 

"  Sacred  which.  ..." 

Then  the  N.C.O.  would  commence  to  rush  from  corner 
to  corner,  spitting  and  swearing,  whilst  Nikita  remained 
perfectly  still  in  the  same  place  and  in  the  same  attitude, 
following  his  infuriated  superior  with  his  eyes.  He  v/as 
not  upset  by  the  abuse  and  epithets  showered  on  him, 
but  only  grieved  whole-heartedly  at  his  inability  to  do 
his  superior's  bidding. 

"  Three  days'  extra  duty  !"  the  worn-out  N.C.O.  would 
gasp  in  a  voice  rendered  faint  and  hoarse  from  shouting, 
and  Nikita  would  thank  God  to  be  freed  at  least  for  a 
time  from  the  hated  "  literature  "  and  drill. 

When  it  was  noticed  that  the  punishment  awarded 
Nikita  not  only  did  not  distress  him,  but  even  afforded 
him  real  pleasure,  Nikita  was  placed  under  arrest. 
Finally,  having  exhausted  all  means  for  the  reformation 
of  the  unfortunate  man,  the  authorities  washed  their 
hands  of  him. 

"  Nothing  can  be  done  with  Ivanoff,"  was  the  almost 
daily  complaint  of  the  Company  Sergeant-Ma j or,  when 
making  his  morning  report  to  the  Company  Commander. 

"  About  Ivanoff  ?  .  .  .  Oh  yes.  Let  me  see,  what  is 
it  he  is  doing  ?"  the  Captain  would  ask  as  he  sat  in  his 
dressing-gown,  smoking  a  cigarette  between  the  intervals 
of  sipping  tea  out  of  a  glass  in  an  electro-plated  holder. 

*'  Nothing,  Your  Excellency  ;  he  is  not  doing  anything. 
As  a  man  he  is  quiet,  only  he  cannot  understand 
anything." 

10 


146         OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT 

"  Try  something,"  the  Captain  would  say  meditatively, 
blowing  rings  of  tobacco  smoke. 

"  We  have  tried,  Your  Excellency,  but  nothing  comes 
of  it." 

"  Well !  W^hat  can  I  do  with  him  ?  You  will  agree 
at  least  that  I  am  but  a  mortal,  and  cannot  work  miracles. 
Eh  ?    Well,  idiot,  do  something  with  him  .  .  .  and  get  out !" 

Eventually  the  Company  Commander  became  bored 
with  hearing  daily  complaints  from  the  Sergeant-Ma j  or 
about  Nikita. 

"  Stop  talking  about  your  Ivanoff  !"  he  shouted. 
"  Don't  try  to  teach  him  ;  give  him  up.  Do  what  you 
like  with  him,  only  don't  bring  him  up  before  me." 

The  Company  Sergeant-Major  tried  to  arrange  a 
transfer  of  Nikita  Ivanoff  to  the  '*  employed  "  men's 
Company,  but  there  were  already  plenty  of  "  employed  " 
men.  An  attempt  to  make  him  an  officer's  servant  was 
equally  unsuccessful,  as  all  the  officers  already  had 
servants.  Then  Nikita  was  saddled  with  all  the  dirty 
work  of  the  battalion,  and  all  attempts  to  make  him  a 
soldier  were  abandoned.  Thus  he  lived  for  a  year  until 
the  arrival  of  a  newly-appointed  subaltern  officer,  Second 
Lieutenant  Stebelkoff. 

Nikita  was  told  off  as  "  permanent  orderly  "  to  him — 
in  plain  language,  to  be  his  soldier-servant. 

*  *  ¥:  *  ¥f 

Alexander  Michailovich  Stebelkoff,  Nikita's  new  master, 
was  a  very  kind  young  fellow  of  average  height,  with  a 
shaven  chin  and  a  magnificently  pointed  moustache, 
which  he  from  time  to  time,  not  without  a  feeling  of  pride, 
used  to  stroke  lightly  with  his  left  hand.  He  had  just 
passed  through  the  cadet  school  without  having  displayed 
during  his  time  there  any  special  taste  for  sciences,  but 
had  learnt  his  drill  to  perfection.  He  was  thoroughly 
happy  in  his  present  position.  The  two  years  spent  at  the 
school  on  Government  fare,  under  the  strict  supervision 
of  the  authorities,  the  entire  absence  of  friends  to  whom 


OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT         147 

he  could  have  gone  on  holidays  in  search  of  relaxation 
from  the  barrack  life  of  the  school,  and  not  possessed  of 
a  kopeck  of  private  money  with  which  he  could  have 
amused  himself,  had  all  wearied  him,  and  now,  as  an 
officer  receiving  forty  roubles  a  month  pay,  commanding 
a  half-company  of  soldiers,  and  a  soldier-servant  at  his 
absolute  disposal,  he  for  the  time  at  least  wanted  nothing 
more.  "  Good,  very  good,"  he  thought,  as  he  went  to 
sleep,  and  again  awaking  he  first  of  all  remembered  he  was 
no  longer  a  cadet,  but  an  officer,  that  there  was  no  longer 
need  to  jump  out  of  bed  on  the  instant  and  dress,  under 
fear  of  the  orderly-officer,  but  that  he  could  roll  over  again, 
make  himself  snug,  and  smoke  a  cigarette. 

*'  Nikita  !"  he  would  call,  and  Nikita,  in  a  faded  rose- 
coloured  cotton  shirt,  black  cloth  trousers,  and  a  pair  of 
old  big  rubber  galoshes  (goodness  knows  how  he  had 
become  possessed  of  them)  on  his  bare  feet,  would  appear 
at  the  door  leading  from  the  single  room  of  Stebelkoff's 
flat  into  the  passage. 

"Cold  to-day?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  Your  Excellency,"  Nikita  would 
reply  timidly. 

"  Go  and  look  !  and  come  and  tell  me  !" 

Otf  would  go  Nikita  into  the  frost,  and  in  the  course  of 
a  minute  reappear. 

"  Very  cold,  sir." 

"  Is  there  a  wind  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  Your  Excellency." 

"  Ass  !  Why  can't  you  tell  ?  Surely  you  were  in  the 
courtyard  ?" 

**  In  the  yard  there  is  none,  sir." 

"  None.  ...     Go  out  into  the  street." 

Nikita  would  go  out  into  the  street,  and  return  with 
the  information  that  there  was  a  **  healthy  "  wind. 

*'  No  parade,  sir,  so  Sidoroff  says,"  he  would  venture 
to  add. 

"  All  right ;  clear  out  !"  and  Alexander  Michailovich 


148        OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT 

would  then  turn  over  in  his  bunk,  pull  the  warm 
blanket  over  him,  and,  half  dozing,  would  commence  to 
think  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  crackling  of  brightl}^- 
burning  wood  in  the  stove  which  had  been  lit  by  Nikita. 
Cadet  life  appeared  to  him  as  an  unpleasant  dream, 
although  it  was  not  so  long  ago  that  the  drum  used  to 
beat  right  at  his  ear,  and  he  would  have  to  jump  out  of 
bed  shivering  from  the  cold.  .  .  .  These  recollections 
would  awake  others,  also  not  particularly  pleasing. 
Poverty,  and  the  squalid  surroundings  and  life  of  a  small 
official,  a  habitually  sullen  mother,  a  tall  lean  woman, 
with  a  severe  expression  on  her  thin  face  which  seemed  a 
perpetual  defiance  to  anyone  bold  enough  to  insult  her. 
A  crowd  of  brothers  and  sisters  ;  the  constant  quarrels 
between  them.  His  mother's  railings  against  fate,  an 
everlasting  exchange  of  abuse  between  his  parents  when- 
ever his  father  came  home  drunk.  The  school  in  which, 
in  spite  of  all  efforts,  it  was  so  difficult  to  learn.  The 
teasing  of  his  schoolmates,  who  for  some  unknov/n  reason 
had  bestowed  on  him  the  extremely  insulting  nickname 
of  the  "  herring."  His  failure  in  the  examination  on 
Russian.  The  depressing,  humiliating  scene  when  he  was 
turned  out  of  the  school  in  consequence,  and  arrived 
home  1  in  tears.  His  father  was  asleep  on  the  chintz- 
covered  sofa  drunk.  His  mother  was  fussing  about  the 
kitchen  at  the  stove  preparing  dinner.  Seeing  Sasha  in 
tears  with  his  books,  she  guessed  what  had  happened, 
and  after  showering  abuse  on  him  had  rushed  off  to  his 
father,  awakened  him,  and  explained  what  had  happened, 
and  his  father  had  thereupon  beaten  him. 

Sasha  was  then  fifteen  years  old.  Two  years  later  he 
took  up  military  service  as  a  volunteer,  and  at  twenty 
years  of  age  was  already  an  independent  man,  a  Second 
Lieutenant  in  an  infantry  regiment  of  the  Line.  .  .  . 

"  It  is  very  nice,"  he  would  reflect,  as  he  lay  under  the 
blanket.  ...  "  This  evening  at  the  Club  there  is  to  be 
a  dance." 


OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT         149 

A-nd  Alexander  Michailovich  would  picture  to  himself 
the  hall  of  the  Officers'  Club  brilliantly  lighted  up,  the 
heat,  and  music,  and  young  girls  in  long  rows  seated 
along  the  wall,  only  waiting  for  some  young  ofhcer  to 
invite  them  to  take  a  few  turns  in  a  waltz.  And  Stebelkoif 
with  a  click  of  his  heels  (What  a  pity,  dash  it !  he  sighed, 
he  could  not  wear  spurs),  and  neatly  bending  before  the 
Major's  pretty  daughter,  with  a  graceful  sweep  of  his  hand 
would  say  "  Permettez,"  and  the  Major's  daughter,  placing 
her  little  hand  on  his  shoulder  near  his  epaulette,  they 
would  glide  away.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  that's  not  being  a  '  herring  ' — how  idiotic,  and 
why  a  *  herring  '  ?  Those  who  attend  the  first  course  at 
the  University  are  much  more  like  herrings,  going  there 
and  starving,  but  I  .  .  .  And  why  is  it  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  go  to  the  University  ?  We  will  allow  that  a 
magistrate  or  doctor  receives  a  bigger  salary  than  my 
pay,  but  think  how  long  it  takes  to  get  it  !  .  .  .  and  all 
this  time  one  must  live  at  one's  own  expense.  But 
with  us,  once  you  get  into  the  school  everything  goes  of 
itself.  If  one  serves  well  it  is  possible  to  become  a 
General.  .  .  .  Ah,  then  I  would  give  it  .  .  ."  Alexander 
Michailovich  did  not  say  to  whom  or  what  he  would  give, 
for  other  reminiscences  than  of "  herrings  "  at  this  instance 
flashed  into  his  mind. 

**  Nikita,"  he  called,  ''  have  we  any  tea  ?" 

"  None  at  all.  Your  Excellency — all  used." 

"  Go  out  and  buy  some  ;"  and  then  he  would  draw  his 
new  purse  from  under  the  pillow,  and  give  Nikita  the 
money,  and  whilst  Nikita  is  out  getting  the  tea  Alexander 
Michailovich  continues  his  reveries,  but  before  Nikita 
returns  has  succeeded  in  going  to  sleep  again. 

**  Sir  !     Your  Excellency  !"  whispers  Nikita. 

"  What  ?  Eh  ?  Have  you  got  the  tea  ?  All  right,  I 
will  get  up  in  a  moment.  .  .  .     Help  me  dress." 

Alexander  Michailovich,  both  at  home  and  at  the 
school,  had  always  dressed  himself  (excepting,  of  course. 


150         OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT 

during  his  babyhood),  but  having  become  possessed  of  a 
manservant,  he  in  two  weeks  had  absolutely  forgotten 
how  to  put  on  or  take  off  his  clothes.  Nikita  pulls  on  his 
master's  socks  and  boots,  helps  him  with  his  trousers, 
throws  around  his  master's  shoulders  the  summer  military 
cloak  which  does  duty  as  a  dressing-gown.  And  Alex- 
ander Michailovich,  without  washing,  sits  down  to  drink 
his  morning  tea. 

They  bring  him  the  lithographed  regimental  orders,  and 
Stebelkoff,  reading  it  from  beginning  to  end,  notes  with 
satisfaction  that  his  turn  for  "  guard  "  is  still  far  off. 
"  But  what  is  this  novelty  ?"  he  wonders  as  he  reads  : 

**  With  a  view  to  maintaining  the  standard  of  know- 
ledge amongst  officers  of  the  regiment,  Captain  Ermolin 
and  Lieutenant  Petroff  (2nd)  are  detailed  from  the  com- 
mencement of  next  week  to  lecture,  the  former  on  tactics, 
the  latter  on  fortification.  Further  special  notice  will 
be  given  as  to  the  hours  for  these  lectures,  which  will  take 
place  in  the  Officers'  Club." 

"  Well !  Goodness  knows,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to 
go  and  listen,"  thinks  Alexander  Michailovich.  "  They 
were  boring  enough  at  the  school,  and  they  will  not  say 
anything  new,  but  will  only  read  from  the  old  handbooks." 

Having  read  through  the  Orders  and  finished  his  tea, 
Alexander  Michailovich  orders  Nikita  to  clear  away  the 
samovar,  and  settles  himself  down  to  roll  cigarettes, 
continuing  the  while  his  never-ending  cogitations  about 
his  past,  present,  and  future,  which  last  promises  him, 
if  not  the  embonpoint  of  a  General,  at  least  the  sub- 
stantial epaulettes  of  a  Staff -Officer.  And  when  all  the 
cigarettes  have  been  rolled  he  lies  on  his  bed,  and  reads 
the  back  numbers  of  the  Niva,  looking  at  the  already 
familiar  pictures,  and  not  missing  a  line  of  the  text. 
Finally,  from  long  lying  and  reading,  his  head  begins  to 
get  dizzy. 

"  Nikita  !"  he  shouts. 

Nikita  jumps  up  from  the  cloak  stretched  out  on  the 


OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT         151 

floor  in  the  passage  near  the  stove,  which  serves  him  as  a 
bed,  and  rushes  to  the  Bar  in. 

"  See  what  time  it  is  !  .  .  .  No,  better  bring  me  my 
watch." 

Nikita  gingerly  takes  up  a  silver  watch,  with  its  chain 
of  new  gold,  from  the  table,  and,  having  handed  it  to  his 
master  again,  repairs  into  the  passage  to  his  cloak. 

*'  Half-past  one  .  .  .  about  time  to  dine,"  thinks 
Stebelkoff,  winding  up  the  watch  with  a  brass  key  which 
he  had  just  purchased,  and  in  the  head  of  which  was 
inserted  a  little  photographic  picture  visible  in  magnified 
shape  if  held  up  to  the  light.  Alexander  Michailovich 
looks  at  the  picture,  screwing  up  his  left  eye,  and  smiles. 
"  What  extraordinarily  amusing  things  they  make  nowa- 
days, to  be  sure,"  he  reflects,  "  and  how  clever.  .  .  . 
However,  I  must  be  going.  .  .  .     Nikita  !"  he  shouts. 

Nikita  appears. 

"  I  want  to  wash." 

Nikita  brings  an  unpainted  deal  stool  into  the  room, 
and  places  a  wash  -  hand  basin  on  it.  Alexander 
Michailovich  begins  to  wash.  The  icy  cold  water  scarcely 
touches  his  hands  before  he  yells  out. 

"  How  many  times  have  I  told  you,  you  clown,  to  leave 
the  water  in  the  room  over-night.  This  water  is  cold 
enough  to  freeze  one's  face.  .  .  .     Idiot  !" 

Nikita,  fully  conscious  of  the  enormity  of  his  crime, 
remains  silent,  and  continues  busily  to  pour  water  into 
the  enraged  gentleman's  palms. 

"  Have  you  brushed  my  tunic  ?" 

"  Yes,  Your  Excellency,  I  have  brushed  it,"  replies 
Nikita,  as  he  gives  the  Barin  a  new  tunic,  with  glisten- 
ing gold  shoulder-straps,  decorated  with  a  numeral  and 
one  star,  which  had  been  hanging  on  the  back  of  a  chair. 

Before  putting  it  on  Alexander  Michailovich  attentively 
inspects  the  dark  green  cloth,  and  finds  a  piece  of  fluff 
on  it. 

"  What's  this  ?     Is  this  what  you  call  cleaning  ?     Is 


152         OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT 

this  the  way  you  do  your  work  ?     Clear  out,  you  fool,  and 
brush  it  again." 

Nikita  goes  out  into  the  passage,  and  begins  to  extract 
apparently  from  the  brush,  with  the  aid  of  the  tunic, 
sounds  known  as  "  shooing."  Stebelkoff,  with  the  aid 
of  a  folding  mirror  in  a  yellow  wooden  frame  and  pommade 
hongroise,  begins  to  bring  his  moustaches  to  the  greatest 
possible  perfection.  Finally  they  are  reduced  to  order, 
but  the  noise  in  the  passage  continues. 

'*  Here,  give  me  that  tunic  ;  you  will  go  on  cleaning  it 
until  the  crack  of  doom.  ...  I  am  already  late  through 
you,  ass  !  .  .  ." 

Then,  carefully  buttoning  up  his  coat,  fastening  on  his 
sword,  and  putting  on  his  galoshes,  Alexander  Michailovich 
goes  out  into  the  street,  stamping  with  his  feet  along  the 
frozen  boards  of  the  path. 

The  rest  of  the  day  passes  in  dining,  reading  the  Russki 
Invalid,  and  in  conversation  with  his  brother-officers 
about  the  Service,  promotion,  and  pay.  In  the  evening 
Alexander  Michailovich  goes  to  the  Club,  and  flashes  in 
the  "  whirl  of  a  waltz  "  with  the  Major's  daughter.  He 
returns  home  late,  tired,  and  a  little  excited  from  several 
drinks  taken  during  the  evening,  but  contented.  .  .  . 
Life  was  varied  only  by  drill,  guards,  camp  in  the  summer, 
sometimes  manoeuvres,  and  occasionally  by  lectures  on 
fortification  and  tactics  which  it  was  impossible  to  avoid. 
And  so  the  years  roll  on,  leaving  no  traces  on  Stebelkoff, 
save  that  the  colour  of  his  face  changes  and  signs  of 
baldness  become  manifest,  whilst  instead  of  one  star  on 
the  shoulder-straps  there  appear  two,  three,  and  then 
four  stars.  .  .  . 

What  does  Nikita  do  all  this  time  ?  Nikita  lies  for  the 
most  part  on  his  cloak  near  the  stove,  jumping  up  every 
few  minutes  in  answer  to  the  never-ending  demands  of  the 
Barin.  In  the  morning  he  has  quite  a  lot  to  do.  There 
is  the  stove  to  be  lighted,  the  samovar  prepared, 
water  brought,   boots  and  uniform  to  be  cleaned,   the 


OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT         153 

Barin  to  be  dressed  when  he  gets  up,  and  the  room  to 
be  swept  and  tidied.  (It  is  true  this  last  does  not  take 
up  much  time,  as  the  whole  furniture  consists  only  of  a 
bed,  a  table,  three  chairs,  a  cupboard,  and  a  portmanteau.) 
Nevertheless  all  this  is  work  for  Nikita.  When  his  master 
has  gone  out  there  commences  a  long,  long  day  to  be 
spent  in  the  compulsory  doing  of  nothing,  broken  only  by 
a  journey  to  the  barracks  for  his  dinner  from  the  Company 
kitchen.  Whilst  living  in  barracks  Nikita  ha,d  learnt  a 
little  cobbling — how  to  patch  and  re-sole  boots,  and  to 
piece  heels.  When  he  was  transferred  to  Stebelkoff  he 
thought  of  continuing  his  trade,  and  used  to  hide  the  bag 
containing  his  work  behind  the  door  in  the  passage  as 
soon  as  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  The  Barin 
having  noticed  for  several  days  that  there  was  a  strong 
smell  of  leather  in  the  passage,  sought  out  the  cause,  and 
gave  Nikita  a  severe  "  head-washing,"  after  which  he 
ordered  that  it  "  must  never  occur  again."  Then  there 
was  nothing  left  for  Nikita  to  do  but  to  lie  on  his  cloak 
and  think.  And  he  used  to  lie  there  thinking  through 
whole  evenings,  dozing  off  and  on  until  a  knock  at  the 
door  notified  his  master's  return.  Then  Nikita  would 
undress  Alexander  Michailovich,  and  soon  afterwards  the 
little  flat  would  be  buried  in  darkness — ofhcer  and  servant 
both  asleep. 

The  wind  drones  and  howls,  and  the  snow  beats  in 
whirling  flakes  against  the  window,  representing  to  the 
sleeping  Stebelkoff  the  noise  of  baU-room  music.  In  his 
sleep  he  sees  a  brilliantly-lighted  hall  such  as  he  had 
hitherto  never  seen,  full  of  smartly-dressed  strangers. 
However,  he  does  not  feel  at  all  confused,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  the  hero  of  the  evening.  There  are  people  he 
knows  in  the  hall,  too.  Their  attitude  towards  him  is 
not  as  it  has  been  usually,  but  is  one  of  enthusiasm.  His 
Colonel,  instead  of  giving  him  the  usual  two  fingers, 
presses  his  hand  warmly  in  his  own  fat  fist.  Major 
Khlobuschin,  who  had  always  looked  somewhat  askance 


154         OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT 

at  Stebelkoff' s  wooing  of  his  daughter,  himself  now  leads 
her  to  him,  submissively  bowing.  What  he  had  done 
or  for  what  they  are  praising  him  he  does  not  know, 
but  that  he  had  done  something  was  evident.  Glancing 
at  his  shoulders,  he  sees  on  them  a  General's  epaulettes. 
The  music  resounds,  the  couples  glide  off,  and  he,  too, 
floats  away  somewhere  ever  farther  and  farther,  ever 
higher  and  higher.  The  brilliantly-lighted  hall  becomes 
a  mere  speck  of  distant  light.  Around  him  are  a  great 
number  of  persons  in  various  uniforms.  They  are  all 
asking  his  orders.  He  does  not  know  about  what  they 
are  asking,  but  gives  his  instructions.  Orderlies  gallop 
to  and  from  him.  The  distant  roar  of  cannon  is  heard. 
There  is  the  clash  of  martial  music  as  regiment  after 
regiment  marches  past  him.  All  are  moving  forward. 
The  guns  sound  closer  and  closer,  and  Stebelkoff  becomes 
terrified  ;  "  They  are  killing  people,"  he  thinks.  And  an 
awful  yell  resounds  from  every  side.  Terrible,  monstrous, 
and  ferocious  beings,  such  as  he  had  never  seen  anywhere, 
rush  at  him.  They  come  ever  closer  ;  Stebelkoff's  heart 
contracts  with  the  indescribable  fear  experienced  only  in 
dreams,  and  he  shouts  "  Nikita  !" 

The  wind  drones  and  howls,  and  the  snow  beats  in 
whirling  flakes  against  the  window,  and  it  seems  to  the 
sleeping  Nikita  a  real  wind  and  real  bad  weather.  He 
dreams  he  is  lying  in  his  own  hut  alone.  No  one  is  near 
him — no  wife,  no  father — not  one  of  his  belongings.  He 
does  not  know  how  he  got  home,  and  is  afraid  he  must  have 
deserted.  He  is  certain  that  they  are  after  him,  and  feels 
that  they  are  near,  and  wishes  to  run  away  and  hide 
somewhere,  but  is  unable  to  move  a  limb.  Then  he  cries 
out,  and  the  whole  hut  is  filled  with  people,  all  his  village 
acquaintances,  but  their  faces  are  all  extraordinary. 
"  How  do  you  do,  Nikita  ?"  they  say  to  him.  "  All  yours, 
my  friend,  have  gone  !  God  has  taken  them  all.  All 
have  died.  There  they  are ;  look  there  !"  and  Nikita 
sees  his  whole  family  in  a  crowd  together — Ivan,  his  wife, 


OFFICER  AND  SOLDIER-SERVANT  155 

and  Aunt  Praskovia,  and  the  children.  And  he  under- 
stands that,  although  they  are  all  standing  together,  they 
are  all  dead,  and  that  all  his  village  friends  are  dead. 
That  is  why  they  look  so  odd,  and  are  laughing  so 
strangely.  They  come  towards  him,  and  seize  hold  ®f 
him,  but  he  breaks  away  from  them,  and  runs  over  the 
snowdrifts,  stumbling  and  falling.  The  dead  are  no 
longer  pursuing  him,  but  Lieutenant  Stebelkoff,  with 
soldiers.  And  he  runs  on  and  on,  and  the  Lieutenant 
keeps  crying  out  to  him  :  "  Nikita  !  Nikita  !  Nikita  !" 

"  Nikita  !"  shouts  out  Stebelkoff  in  reality,  and  Nikita, 
awaking,  jumps  up,  and  gropes  his  way  into  the  room  in 
his  bare  feet. 

"  What's   the  matter  with  you  ?     D you  !     Are 

you  making  a  fool  of  me,  or  what  ?  How  many  times 
have  I  told  you  to  place  some  matches  near  me  ?  You 
sleep  like  a  lout  !  I  have  been  calling  you  for  half  an 
hour.     Give  me  some  matches." 

The  sleepy  Nikita  fumbles  about  the  table  and  window 
until  he  finds  the  matches,  then  lights  a  candle  stuck  in  a 
brass  candlestick,  which  is  turning  green  with  verdigris, 
and,  all  the  time  blinking  his  eyes,  gives  it  to  his  master. 
Alexander  Michailovich  smokes  a  cigarette,  and  within  a 
quarter  of  an  hour's  time  officer  and  soldier-servant  are 
again  wrapped  in  deep  slumber. 


XI 
NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 


I  HAVE  long  wanted  to  commence  my  memoirs.  A 
strange  reason  is  compelling  me  to  take  up  a  pen.  Some 
write  their  memoirs  because  there  is  much  in  them  historic- 
ally interesting,  others  because  they  wish  by  so  doing  to 
live  the  happy  days  of  their  youth  once  more,  and  yet 
others  in  order  to  sneer  at  and  traduce  persons  long  since 
dead,  and  to  justify  themselves  before  long-forgotten 
accusations.  In  my  case  it  is  not  any  one  of  these  reasons. 
I  am  still  young.  I  have  not  made  history,  nor  have  I 
seen  how  it  is  made.  There  is  no  reason  for  people  to 
criticize  me,  and  I  have  nothing  concerning  which  I  wish 
to  justify  myself.  Once  again  to  experience  happiness  ? 
My  happiness  was  so  short-lived  and  its  finale  so  terrible 
that  to  recall  it  does  not  afford  me  pleasure  ...  no,  far 
from  it. 

Why,  then,  does  an  unknown  voice  keep  whispering  of 
that  happiness  in  my  ear  ?  Why,  when  I  awake  at  night, 
do  familiar  scenes  and  forms  pass  before  me  in  the 
darkness  ?  And  why,  w^hen  one  pale  form  appears,  does 
his  face  blaze,  his  hands  clench,  and  terror  and  fury  arrest 
his  breathing  as  on  that  day  when  I  stood  face  to  face 
with  my  mortal  enemy  ? 

I  cannot  rid  myself  of  these  recollections,  and  a  strange 
thought  has  come  into  my  head.     Perhaps  if  I  commit 

156 


NADEJDA  iNICOLAIEVNA  157 

these  recollections  to  paper  I  shall  in  this  way  settle 
accounts  and  finish  with  them.  .  .  .  Perhaps  they  will 
leave  me,  and  allow  me  to  die  in  peac^j.  This  is  the 
strange  reason  which  is  compelling  me  to  take  up  a  pen. 
Perhaps  somebody  will  read  this  diary,  perhaps  not ;  I 
care  little.  Therefore  I  do  not  apologize  to  any  future 
readers  either  as  regards  style  or  the  choice  of  subject 
upon  which  I  am  writing,  a  subject  not  in  the  least 
interesting  to  people  accustomed  to  busy  themselves  in 
questions,  if  not  of  world-wide,  at  least  of  public  interest. 
It  is  true,  however,  that  I  want  one  person  to  read  these 
lines,  but  she  will  not  condemn  me.  All  that  concerns 
me  is  precious  to  her.     This  person  is  my  cousin. 

Why  to-day  is  she  so  long  in  coming  ?  It  is  already 
three  months  since  I  came  to  myself  after  that  day.  The 
first  face  I  saw  was  Sonia's.  And  from  that  time  she  has 
spent  every  evening  with  me.  It  has  become  a  kind  of 
duty  v/ith  her.  She  sits  by  my  bed  or  beside  a  big  arm- 
chair when  I  am  strong  enough  to  sit  up,  talks  with  me, 
and  reads  aloud  from  the  newspapers  or  from  books. 
She  is  much  distressed  because  I  leave  it  to  her,  and  am 
indifferent  as  to  what  she  reads. 

"  Look  here,  Andrei,  there  is  a  new  story  in  the 
Viestnik  Europa  ca'led  '  She  thought  it  v/as  other- 
wise.' " 

"  Very  good,  deai,  we  will  have  '  She  thought  it  was 
otherwise.'  " 

"  It  is  a  story  by  Mrs.  Hay." 

And  she  commenced  to  read  a  long  history  of  a  Mr. 
Skripple  and  a  Miss  Gordon.  After  the  first  two  pages 
she  turned  her  big  kind  eyes  on  me,  and  said :  "It  is  not 
a  long  one  ;  the  Viestnik  always  cuts  the  stories  short." 

*'  All  right,  I  will  listen." 

And  as  she  resumes  her  reading  of  the  narrative  con- 
cocted by  Mrs.  Hay,  I  look  at  her  face  bent  over  the  book, 
and  forget  to  listen  to  the  edifying  story.  Sometimes  in 
those  places  where,  according  to  Mrs.  Hay,  I  should  laugh 


158  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

bitter  tears  choke  me.  Then  she  drops  the  book,  and, 
looking  at  me  in  a  searching,  but  timid,  manner,  places- 
her  hand  on  m  y  forehead,  and  says  : 

"  Andrei  darling,  again  !  Now,  my  dear  boy,  that 
will  do.  Don'\!:  cry.  It  will  all  pass  by  and  be  for- 
gotten ..."  ju^t  as  a  mother  comforts  a  little  child  who 
has  bumped  and  hurt  his  forehead.  But  my  hurt  will 
only  pass  away  with  my  life,  which,  I  feel,  is  little  by 
little  ebbing  from  my  body  ;  nevertheless,  I  calm  down. 

Oh,  my  darling  cousin !  How  I  appreciate  your 
womanly  caresses  !  May  God  bless  you,  and  allow  the 
black  pages  in  the  beginning  of  your  life — pages  on  which 
my  name  is  written — to  be  replaced  by  a  radiant  narrative 
of  happiness  !  Only  grant  that  this  narrative  will  not 
resemble  Mrs.  Hay's  tiresome  story. 

A  ring  !  At  last  !  She  has  come,  and  will  bring  an 
atmosphere  of  freshness  into  my  dark  and  stifling  room, 
will  break  its  silence  with  her  quiet  tender  talk,  and  will 
lighten  it  with  her  beauty. 


II 

I  do  not  remember  my  mother,  and  my  father  died 
when  I  was  fourteen  years  old.  My  guardian,  a  distant 
relation,  packed  me  off  to  one  of  the  Petersburg  gym- 
nasia, where,  after  four  years,  I  completed  my  studies 
and  was  absolutely  free.  My  guardian,  a  man  immersed 
in  his  own  numerous  affairs,  confined  his  solicitude  for 
me  to  an  allowance  sufficient,  in  his  opinion,  to  keep  me 
from  want.  It  was  not  a  very  handsome  income,  but  it 
entirely  freed  me  from  care  as  to  earning  my  crust  of 
bread,  and  allowed  me  to  choose  my  path  of  life. 

The  choice  had  long  been  made.  For  four  years  I  had 
loved  before  all  else  in  the  world  to  play  with  paints  and 
pencils,  and  at  the  end  of  my  term  at  the  gymnasium  I 
already  drew  quite  well,  so  I  had  no  difficulty  in  entering 
the  Academy  of  Arts. 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  159 

Had  I  talent  ?  Now,  when  I  shall  never  again  stretch 
a  canvas,  I  may  without  bias  look  upon  myself  as  an 
artist.  Yes,  I  had  talent.  And  I  say  this  not  because  of 
the  criticisms  of  comrades  and  experts,  not  because  I 
passed  so  quickly  through  the  Academy,  but  because  of 
the  feeling  which  was  in  me,  which  made  itself  felt  every 
time  I  commenced  to  work.  No  one  who  is  not  an  artist 
can  experience  the  painful  but  delicious  excitement  every 
time  one  approaches  a  new  canvas  for  the  first  time.  No 
one  but  an  artist  can  experience  the  oblivion  to  all  around 
when  the  soul  is  engrossed  in.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  had  talent, 
and  I  should  have  become  no  ordinary  artist. 

There  they  are,  hanging  on  the  walls  —  my  canvases, 
studies,  and  exercises,  and  unfinished  pictures.  And 
there  she  is.  ..  .  I  must  ask  my  cousin  to  take  her  away 
into  another  room.  Or,  no — I  must  have  it  hung  exactly 
at  the  foot  of  my  bed,  so  that  she  may  all  the  time  look 
at  me  with  her  sad  glance,  as  if  foreseeing  execution.  In 
a  dark  blue  dress,  with  a  dainty  white  cap,  and  a  large 
tricoloured  cockade  on  one  side  of  it,  and  with  her  dark 
chestnut  locks  escaping  from  under  its  white  frill  in  thick 
waves,  she  gazes  at  me  as  if  alive.  Oh,  Charlotte,  Char- 
lotte !  Ought  I  to  bless  or  curse  the  hour  when  the 
thought  first  entered  my  head  to  paint  you  ? 

Bezsonow  was  always  against  it.  When  I  first  told 
him  of  my  intention,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
smiled  in  a  dissatisfied  manner. 

'*  You  are  mad  people,  you  Russian  painters,"  said  he. 
"  Have  you  so  little  of  your  own  about  which  to  paint  ? 
Charlotte  Corday  !  What  have  you  got  to  do  with  Char- 
lotte ?  Can  you  really  transfer  yourself  to  that  time 
and  those  surroundings  ? 

Perhaps  he  was  right.  .  .  .  Only,  the  figure  of  the 
French  heroine  so  possessed  me  that  I  could  not  but  take 
it  for  a  picture.  I  decided  to  paint  her  full  length,  alone 
standing  square  before  the  spectators,  with  her  eyes  gazing 
ahead  of  her.     She  had  already  decided  on  her  deed- 


i6o  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

crime,  but  it  is  only  discernible  as  yet  on  her  face.  The 
hand  which  will  deal  the  fatal  blow  at  present  hangs  help- 
lessly, and  shows  up  delicately  in  its  whiteness  against  the 
dark  blue  cloth  of  her  dress.  A  lace  cape,  fastened  cross- 
ways,  tints  the  delicate  neck,  along  which  to-morrow  a 
line  of  blood  will  pass.  ...  I  remember  how  her  image 
shaped  itself  in  my  mind.  ...  I  read  her  history  in  a 
sentimental  and  perhaps  untruthful  book  by  Lamartine ; 
from  out  of  the  false  pathos  of  the  garrulous  Frenchman, 
delighting  in  his  verbosity  and  style,  the  clean  figure  of  the 
girl — a  fanatic  for  the  good  cause — stood  out  in  clear 
relief.  I  read  over  and  over  again  all  that  I  could  get 
hold  of  about  her,  studied  her  portraits,  and  decided  to 
paint  a  picture. 

The  first  picture,  like  a  first  love,  takes  entire  possession 
of  one.  I  carried  about  mentally  the  figure  which  I  had 
formed  ;  I  thought  out  the  minutest  details,  and  reached 
such  a  stage  that,  by  closing  my  eyes,  I  could  clearly 
see  the  Charlotte  I  had  decided  to  put  to  canvas. 

But,  having  begun  the  picture  with  a  happy  feeling  of  fear 
and  tremulous  excitement,  I  at  once  met  an  unexpected 
and  almost  unsurmountable  obstacle.     I  had  no  model. 

Or,  rather,  strictly  speaking,  there  were  models.  I 
chose  the  one  which  seemed  to  me  the  most  suitable  from 
amongst  those  acting  as  models  in  St.  Petersburg,  and 
started  zealously  to  work.  But,  alas  !  how  unlike  was 
this  Anna  Ivanovna  to  the  creation  of  my  fancy,  as  it 
appeared  before  my  closed  eyes  !  Anna  posed  splendidly. 
For  a  whole  hour  she  would  sit  motionless,  never  stirring, 
and  conscientiously  earned  her  rouble,  very  pleased  that 
she  might  sit  draped. 

*'  Ah  !  How  nice  it  is  to  pose  like  this  !  *'  she  said,  with 
a  sigh,  and  a  slight  flush  on  her  face  at  her  first  sitting — 
"  elsewhere " 

She  had  only  been  a  model  for  two  months,  and  could 
not  as  yet  accustom  herself  to  sitting  in  the  nude.  Russian 
girls,  it  would  seem,  never  can  quite  accustom  themselves. 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  i6i 

I  painted  her  hand,  shoulders,  and  pose ;  but  when  it 
came  to  her  face,  despair  seized  me.  The  small,  plump, 
young  face,  with  its  slightly  upturned  nose,  the  kind 
grey  eyes  which  gazed  trustfully  and  somewhat  dolefully 
from  under  very  arched  brows,  shut  out  my  vision.  I 
could  not  transfer  these  nondescript  features  into  that 
face.  I  wrestled  with  my  Anna  Ivanovna  three  or  four 
days,  then  finally  left  her  alone.  There  was  no  other 
model,  and  I  decided  to  do  what  should  never  under  any 
circumstances  be  done,  to  paint  the  face  without  a  study — 
from  *'  out  of  my  head,"  as  they  say.  I  decided  on  this 
because  I  saw  it  as  if  living  before  me.  But  when  work 
began,  brushes  went  flying  into  the  corner.  Instead  of  a 
living  face,  a  sort  of  sketch  resulted,  which  possessed 
neither  flesh  nor  blood. 

I  took  the  canvas  from  the  easel  and  placed  it  in  a 
corner,  face  to  the  wall.  My  failure  surprised  me  greatly. 
I  remember  that  I  even  tore  my  hair.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  it  was  not  worth  living,  to  have  thought  out  such  a 
beautiful  picture  (and  how  beautiful  it  was  in  my  imagi- 
nation !),  and  not  be  able  to  paint  it.  I  threw  myself  on 
my  bed,  and  from  grief  and  vexation  tried  to  sleep.  I 
remember  that  when  I  had  already  dropped  asleep  there 
was  a  ring  at  the  door.  The  postman  had  brought  me  a 
letter  from  my  cousin  Sonia.  She  was  rejoiced  that  I 
had  thought  out  so  big  and  diflicult  a  task,  and  lamented 
that  it  was  so  difficult  to  find  a  model.  "  Would  not  I  do 
when  I  leave  the  Institute  ?  Wait  a  little,  Andrei,"  she 
wrote.  "  I  will  come  to  Petersburg,  and  you  may  paint 
ten  Charlotte  Cordays  from  me  if  you  wish  ...  if  only 
there  is  a  vestige  of  resemblance  between  me  and  that 
which  you  write  now  possesses  your  soul.  ..." 

Sonia  is  not  the  least  like  Charlotte.  She  is  incapable 
of  inflicting  a  wound.  She  loves,  rather,  to  heal  them, 
and  wondrously  well  she  does  it.  And  she  would  cure 
me  ...  if  it  were  possible. 

II 


i62  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 


III 

In  the  evening  I  went  round  to  Bezsonow. 

I  went  into  the  room  where  he  was  sitting  bent  over  his 
writing-table,  which  was  littered  with  books,  manuscripts, 
and  cuttings  from  papers.  His  hand  was  travelling 
swiftly  over  the  paper.  He  wrote  very  quickly,  without 
making  erasures,  in  a  small,  even,  and  florid  hand.  He 
gave  me  a  rapid  glance,  and  continued  writing.  A 
tenacious  idea  apparently  possessed  him,  and  he  did  not 
wish  to  stop  his  work  until  he  had  put  it  to  paper.  I  sat 
down  on  a  wide,  low,  and  much-worn  sofa  (he  slept  on 
it),  which  stood  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  room,  and  for 
some  five  minutes  looked  at  him.  His  regular,  cold 
profile  was  well  known  to  me  ;  I  had  often  sketched  it  in 
my  album,  and  had  once  painted  a  study  from  it.  I  have 
not  got  this  study.  He  sent  it  to  his  mother.  But  this 
evening — perhaps  because  I  was  sitting  out  of  the  light, 
and  a  lamp  with  a  green-coloured  shade  showed  him  up 
in  brilliant  relief,  or  perhaps  because  my  nerves  were 
unstrung — his  face,  for  some  reason,  particularly  at- 
tracted my  attention.  I  looked  at  him  and  took  in  every 
detail  of  his  head,  and  noted  the  smallest  features  which 
had  hitherto  escaped  my  notice.  His  head  was  indis- 
putably the  head  of  a  strong  man  —  perhaps  not  very 
talented,  but  strong. 

The  quadrangular-shaped  skull,  almost  without  a 
break  passing  into  a  wide  and  powerful  nape  ;  the  abrupt 
and  prominent  forehead  ;  the  brows  drooping  in  the  centre 
and  contracting  the  skin  into  a  vertical  fold  ;  the  strong 
jaw  and  thin  lips — all  appeared  to  me  as  something  new 
to-day. 

"  Why  are  you  looking  at  me  like  that  ?"  he  suddenly 
asked,  having  laid  down  his  pen,  and  turning  his  face 
to  me. 

"How  did  you  know  ?" 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  163 

"  I  felt  it.  It  is  not  fancy.  I  have  several  times 
experienced  a  similar  feeling." 

*'  I  was  looking  at  your  face  as  a  model.  You  have  a 
very  original-shaped  head,  Serge  Vassilivich.*' 

'*  Really  !"  said  he,  with  a  short  smile.  "  Well !  and 
let  it  be  original." 

"  No ;  but,  seriously,  you  are  like  someone  .  .  .  some 
famous  ..." 

**  Rogue  or  murderer  ?"  he  asked,  not  allowing  me  to 
finish.  "  I  do  not  believe  in  Lavater.  .  .  .  Well — and 
you  ?  By  your  face  I  see  that  things  are  not  going  well. 
Won't  it  work  out  ?" 

*'  No  ;  things  are  not  altogether  right.  I  have  given  it 
up — chucked  it,"  I  replied  in  a  despairing  voice. 

"  Ah  !  as  I  thought.  What  is  it  ?  I  suppose  no 
model." 

''No,  no,  no.  You  know.  Serge  Vassilivich,  how  I 
have  searched.  But  it  is  all  so  unlike  what  I  want  that 
I  am  simply  in  despair — especially  this  Anna  Ivanovna. 
She  has  absolutely  worn  me  out.  She  has  wiped  out 
everything  with  her  flat  face.  It  even  seems  to  me  that 
the  image  itself  is  not  as  clear  in  my  head  as  it  used  to  be." 

"  Then,  it  was  clear  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  absolutely.  If  it  had  been  possible  to  paint 
it  with  my  eyes  blindfolded,  really,  I  think  nothing  better 
would  have  been  wanted.  With  my  eyes  shut,  I  can  see 
her  now,  there  " — and  I  must  have  screwed  up  my  eyes 
in  a  most  ridiculous  manner,  because  Bezsonow  laughed 
loudly. 

"  Don't  laugh.     Seriously,  I  am  in  despair,"  I  said. 

He  suddenly  stopped  laughing. 

"  If  so,  I'll  stop.  But,  really  and  honestly,  I  am  sorry 
for  you,  although  I  cannot  help  laughing.  But  didn't  I 
tell  you  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  this  subject  ?" 

"  And  I  have  cast  it  aside." 

"  And  how  much  labour,  loss  of  nervous  energy,  how 
much  vain  lamenting  now  !     I  knew  that  it  would  not 


i64  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

work  out ;  and  not  because  I  foresaw  that  you  would 
not  find  a  model,  but  because  the  subject  is  unsuitable. 
One  must  have  it  in  one's  blood.  One  must  be  a  de- 
scendant of  those  people  who  lived  with  Marat  and  Char- 
lotte Corday,  and  those  times.  But  what  are  you  ? — the 
mildest  of  well-educated  Russians,  lethargic  and  weak. 
One  must  be  capable  of  doing  such  a  deed  oneself.  But 
you  !  Could  you,  if  necessary,  throw  away  your  brushes 
and — speaking  figuratively — take  up  a  dagger  ?  For 
you  this  would  be  about  as  possible  as  a  trip  to  the 
moon.  .  .  ." 

*'  I  have  often  argued  with  you  about  this,  Serge 
Vassilivich,  and  apparently  you  will  never  convince  me, 
nor  I  you.  An  artist  is  an  artist  precisely  because  he 
can  place  himself  in  another's  place.  Was  it  necessary 
for  Raphael  to  become  the  Blessed  Virgin  in  order  to 
paint  the  Madonna  ?  It  is  absurd.  Serge  Vassilivich. 
However,  I  am  beginning  an  argument,  although  I  have 
said  I  don't  wish  to  argue  with  you." 

Bezsonow  was  going  to  say  something,  when  he  checked 
himself,  and,  with  a  gesture  of  the  hand,  said  : 

*'  Well,  do  as  you  like  ;"  and,  getting  up  from  his  chair 
at  the  table,  began  to  pace  from  corner  to  corner  of  the 
room,  making  but  little  noise  as  he  did  so  in  his  felt 
slippers. 

"  We  will  not  quarrel  about  it.  We  will  not  irritate 
the  sores  of  a  secret  heart,  as  somebody  said  somewhere." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  anybody  ever  said  that." 

"  Well,  perhaps  not ;  I  usually  misquote  poetry.  .  .  . 
What  if  we  have  the  samovar  in  for  consolation  ?  It 
must  be  time." 

He  went  to  the  door  and  shouted  out,  as  if  drilling  a 
company  of  soldiers  :  '*  Tea  !" 

I  disliked  this  manner  of  his  with  servants.  For  some 
time  neither  of  us  said  a  word.  I  sat  buried  in  the 
cushions  of  the  sofa,  and  he  continued  to  pace  from 
corner   to   corner.     He   was    apparently   thinking   over 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  165 

something  .  .  .  and,  finally  stopping  before  me,  he  said,  in 
a  business-like  tone  : 

"  And  if  you  had  a  model,  would  you  try  again  ?" 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  I  replied  dismally  ;  "  but  where  will 
you  find  her  ?" 

He  again  paced  the  room  for  a  little  while. 

"  Look  here,  Andrei  Nicolaievich.  .  .  .  There  is  one 
person." 

"  If  she  is  somebody  important,  she  will  not  pose." 

"  No,  she  is  not  at  all  important — not  at  all.  But  .  .  . 
and  I  have  a  very  big  '  but '  in  connection  with  this 
matter." 

"  What  kind  of  '  but,'  Serge  Vassilivich  ?  If  you  are 
not  joking  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  am  joking.     It  is  impossible  .  .  .** 

"  Serge  Vassilivich  ..."  I  said,  in  an  imploring  tone. 

'*  Listen  to  what  I  am  going  to  say.  You  know  that 
I  have  a  high  opinion  of  you,"  he  began,  standing  still  in 
front  of  me.  "  We  are  almost  of  an  age.  I  am  two 
years  older,  but  I  have  lived  and  gone  through  as  much 
as  it  will  take  you  ten  years  and  more,  probably,  to  learn. 
I  am  not  a  nice  man.  I  am  bad  and  .  .  .  immoral,  de- 
praved" (he  rapped  out  each  word).  "  There  are  many 
who  are  more  so  than  I,  but  I  consider  myself  more 
guilty.  I  hate  myself  for  it  and  for  not  being  able  to  be 
the  clean-minded  man  I  should  like  to  be  .  .  .  like  you,  for 
instance." 

*'  Of  what  sort  of  depravity  and  cleanness  are  you 
talking  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  call  things  by  their  proper  names.  I  often  envy 
you  your  peace  and  clear  conscience.  I  envy  you  for 
being  what  you  are.  .  .  .  But  it  is  all  the  same — impos- 
sible, impossible,"  he  said  to  himself  angrily.  "  We  will 
not  talk  about  it." 

"  If  impossible,  at  least  explain  what  or  who  I  am,"  I 
replied. 

"  Nothing  ...  no  one.  .  .  .     But,  yes,  I  will  tell  you. 


i66  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

Your  cousin,  Sophia  Nicolaievna.     She  is  not  a  very  near 
cousin  ?'* 

"  A  second  cousin/'  I  replied. 

**  Yes,  a  second  cousin.  She  is  your  fiancee,"  he  said, 
in  a  positive  tone. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?"  I  exclaimed. 

"  I  know.  At  first  I  guessed  it,  but  now  I  know  it. 
I  found  out  from  my  mother.  She  wrote  to  me  not  long 
ago — and,  besides,  remember  where  she  is.  .  .  .  Surely 
you  know  that  in  a  provincial  town  everyone  knows  every- 
thing !     Is  it  true  that  she  is  your  fiancee  ?" 

"  Well,  we  will  allow  it  is  so.'* 

"  And  from  childhood  ?     Your  parents  decided  on  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  parents  arranged  it.  At  first  I  regarded  it  as 
a  joke,  but  now  I  see  that  it  will  take  place.  I  did  not 
want  anyone  to  know  this,  and  I  am  very  sorry  that  you 
have  found  it  out." 

"  I  envy  you  for  having  a  fiancee,"  he  said  quietly,  his 
eyes  taking  on  a  far-away  look,  and  he  sighed  deeply. 

*'  I  did  not  expect  sentimentality  from  you.  Serge 
Vassilivich." 

'*  Yes,  and  I  envy  you  because  you  have  a  fiancee," 
he  repeated,  not  listening  to  me.  "  I  envy  you  your 
cleanness,  your  expectations,  your  future  happiness,  your 
stock  of  as  yet  untouched  love." 

He  took  me  by  the  arm,  made  me  get  up  from  the  sofa, 
and  led  me  up  to  a  looking-glass. 

"  Look  at  me  and  at  yourself,"  he  said.  "  What  are 
you  ?  '  Hyperion  before  the  goat-footed  Satyr/  I  am 
the  goat-footed  Satyr,  and  I  am  stronger  than  you.  My 
bones  are  bigger  and  my  health  is  naturally  better. 
But  compare  us.  Do  you  see  this  ?" — he  lightly  touched 
his  hair,  commencing  to  get  thin  about  his  temples. 
"  Yes,  my  dear  fellow,  all  this  ardour  of  the  soul  wasted 
in  the  wilderness.  Yes,  and  what  ardour  it  is  !  Simply 
.  .  .  filth." 

*'  Serge    Vassilivich,   let    us    get    back    to  where   we 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  167 

started.  Why  do  you  refuse  to  introduce  me  to  the 
model  ?" 

"  Because  she  has  taken  part  in  this  wasted  ardour. 
I  told  you  she  is  not  an  important  person,  and  she  most 
decidedly  is  not  important — on  the  lowest  rung  of  the 
human  ladder.  Below  it  is  the  abyss  into  which  she  per- 
haps will  soon  fall.  The  abyss  is  final  ruin.  Yes,  and 
she  has  irrevocably  perished." 

"  I  am  beginning  to  understand  you.  Serge  Vassilivich." 

"  Ah  !     Well,  you  see  what  kind  of  a  '  but  *  it  is." 

"  You  may  keep  that  kind  of  a  '  but '  for  yourself. 
Why  do  you  consider  it  your  duty  to  act  as  my  guardian 
and  protector  ?" 

"  I  have  said — because  I  like  you,  because  you  are 
clean — not  only  you,  but  both  of  you.  You  represent 
such  a  rarity,  something  fragrant  and  redolent  of  fresh- 
ness. I  envy  you,  and  prize  what  I  can  see,  even  though 
I  am  but  an  outsider.  And  you  wish  me  to  spoil  all 
this  !     No,  don't  expect  it." 

"  What,  then,  does  all  this  amount  to,  Serge  Vassili- 
vich  ?  You  cannot  have  much  hope  for  the  cleanness 
you  have  discovered  in  me  if  you  fear  such  terrible  conse- 
quences from  a  simple  acquaintanceship  with  this  woman." 

'*  Listen  !  I  can  give  you  this  woman  or  not.  I  shall 
act  as  I  think  fit.  I  do  not  want  to  give  her  to  you,  and 
I  shall  not.     Dixi." 

He  sat  down,  whilst  I  excitedly  walked  about  the  room. 

'*  And  you  think  she  is  like  ?" 

"  Very.  But,  no,  not  very  " — he  abruptly  stopped — • 
"  not  at  all  like.     Enough  about  her." 

I  begged  him,  stormed,  showed  him  the  utter  idiocy  of 
the  task  he  had  taken  upon  himself  of  guarding  my 
morals,  but  all  in  vain.  He  absolutely  refused,  and  in 
conclusion  said  :  "  I  have  never  said  dixi  twice." 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  the  fact,"  I  replied  bitterly. 

We  talked  only  of  trivialities  over  our  tea,  and  then  we 
parted. 


i68  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 


IV 

For  a  whole  fortnight  I  did  nothing.  I  went  to  the 
Academy  merely  to  paint  the  programme  picture,  a 
terrible  Biblical  study — the  turning  of  Lot's  wife  into  a 
pillar  of  salt.  Everything  was  ready — Lot  and  his 
family — but  the  pillar  !  I  could  not  imagine  it — 
whether  to  paint  it  as  a  sort  of  tombstone  or  a  simple 
statue  of  Lot's  wife  made  of  rock-salt. 

Life  dragged  along  wearily.  I  received  two  letters 
from  Sonia.  I  read  her  pretty  prattle  about  life  in  the 
Institute — how  she  read  secretly,  evading  the  Argus- 
eyed  class  mistress — and  I  added  her  letters  to  the  others, 
bound  up  by  a  pink  ribbon.  I  had  kept  this  ribbon  for 
fifteen  years,  and  up  to  the  present  had  not  been  able 
to  make  up  my  mind  to  throw  it  away.  Why  throw  it 
away  ?  With  whom  did  it  interfere  ?  But  what  would 
Bezsonow  have  said  had  he  seen  this  evidence  of 
my  sentimentality  ?  Would  he  again  have  gone  into 
raptures  over  my  *'  cleanness,"  or  commenced  to 
jeer  ? 

However,  it  was  no  laughing  matter  which  had  vexed 
me.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  Give  up  the  picture,  or 
search  again  for  a  model  ? 

An  unexpected  chance  helped  me.  One  day,  as  I  was 
lying  on  my  sofa,  with  a  stupid  translation  of  a  French 
novel,  and  had  lain  there  until  my  head  ached  and  my 
brain  reeled  from  stories  of  morgues,  police  detectives, 
and  the  resurrection  of  people  who  ought  to  have  died 
twenty  times  over — the  door  opened,  and  in  came 
Helfreich. 

Imagine  a  pair  of  thin,  rather  bandy  legs,  a  huge  body 
crushed  by  two  humps,  a  pair  of  skinny  arms,  high 
hunched-up  shoulders,  expressive  of  a  sort  of  perpetual 
doubt,  and  a  young,  pale,  slightly  bloated,  but  kind-ex- 
pressioned  face  on  a  head  thrown  well  back.     He  was  an 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  169 

artist.  Amateurs  know  his  pictures  well.  Painted  for 
the  most  part  on  one  subject.  His  heroes  were  cats.  He 
has  painted  sleeping  cats,  cats  with  birds,  cats  arching 
their  backs,  even  a  tipsy  cat,  with  merry  eyes,  behind  a 
glass  of  wine.  In  cats  he  had  reached  the  acme  of  per- 
fection, but  he  never  tried  anything  else.  If  in  the  picture 
there  were  certain  accessories  besides  the  cats — foliage,  from 
out  of  which  a  pink-tipped  nose  with  gold-coloured  eyes 
and  narrow  pupils  should  appear,  any  drapery,  a  basket  in 
which  were  a  whole  family  of  kittens  with  large  trans- 
parent ears — then  he  used  to  turn  to  me.  And  on  this 
occasion  he  arrived  with  something  wrapped  up  in  dark 
blue  paper.  Having  given  me  his  white,  bony  hand,  he 
put  the  parcel  on  the  table  and  commenced  to  unwrap  it. 

"  Cats  again  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Again  .  .  .  You  see,  this  one  wants  a  little  bit  of 
carpet  putting  in  .  .  .  and  in  the  other  a  corner  of  a  sofa." 

He  unrolled  the  paper  and  showed  me  two  not  big 
paintings.  The  figures  of  the  cats  were  quite  finished, 
but  were  painted  on  a  background  of  white  canvas. 

"  Either  a  sofa,  or  something  of  that  sort.  .  .  .  Invent 
it  yourself.     I  am  sick  of  it." 

"  Are  you  going  to  give  up  these  cats  soon,  Simon 
Ivanovich  ?" 

*'  Yes,  I  ought  to.  They  are  hindering  me  very  much. 
But  what  will  you  ?  There  is  money  in  them  !  For  this 
rubbish,  two  hundred  roubles." 

And,  spreading  out  his  legs,  he  shrugged  his  already 
permanently  hunched  shoulders  and  threw  out  his  hands, 
as  if  to  express  his  astonishment  that  such  rubbish  found 
purchasers. 

In  two  years  he  had  obtained  a  reputation  with  his 
cats.  Never  before  or  since  (with  the  exception  of  the 
late  Huna)  had  there  been  such  mastery  in  the  depict- 
ment  of  cats  of  every  possible  age,  colour,  and  condition. 
But,  having  devoted  his  attention  exclusively  to  them, 
Helfreich  had  abandoned  all  else. 


170  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

"  Money,  money  .  .  ."  he  repeated  musingly.  **  And 
why  do  I,  a  humpbacked  devil,  want  so  much  money  ? 
And  all  the  time  I  feel  it  is  becoming  harder  and  harder 
for  me  to  take  up  regular  work.  I  envy  you,  Andrei. 
For  two  years  I  have  painted  nothing  but  this  trash.  .  .  . 
Of  course,  I  am  very  fond  of  cats,  especially  live  cats. 
But  I  feel  that  it  is  sucking  me  drier  and  drier.  And  yet 
I  have  more  talent  than  you,  Andrei.  What  do  you 
think  ?"  he  asked  me  in  a  good-natured  tone. 

"  I  don't  think,"  I  replied,  smiling,  "  I  know  it.'* 

"  And  what  about  your  Charlotte  ?" 

I  waved  my  hand. 

"  Bad  ?"  he  asked.  "  Show  me  .  .  ."  and,  seeing  that! 
I  made  no  move,  he  went  himself  and  rummaged  about! 
in  the  heap  of  old  canvases  lying  in  the  corner  of  the  room. 
Then  he  placed  the  reflector  on  the  lamp,  put  my  un-i 
finished  picture  on  the  easel,  and  lighted  it  up.  He  saidj 
nothing  for  a  long  time,  and  then  exclaimed  : 

"  I  understand  you.  This  might  turn  out  all  right. 
Only  it  is  Anna  Ivanovna.  Do  you  know  why  I  came] 
here  ?     Come  along  with  me." 

"  Where  ?" 

"  Anywhere.    For  a  walk.     I  am  depressed,  Andrei  ;j 
afraid  I  shall  again  fall  into  sin." 

"  WQiat  nonsense  !" 

"  No,  it  is  not  nonsense.  I  feel  that  something  isj 
already  gnawing  away  at  me  here  "  (he  pointed  to  the 
lower  part  of  his  chest).  '*  I  would  fain  forget  and} 
sleep  " — he  suddenly  sang  in  a  thin  tenor — "  and  I  have 
come  here  so  as  not  to  be  alone.  Once  it  begins,  it  will 
last  a  fortnight,  and  then  afterwards  I  am  ill.  And,  finally,^ 
it  is  very  bad  for  me  with  such  a  body."  And  he  turned 
himself  round  twice  on  his  heels  to  show  me  both  his  humps. 

*'  I  tell  you  what,"  I  suggested  ;  *'  come  and  stay  with] 
me  as  my  guest !" 

**  It  would  be  very  nice.     I  will  think  about  it.     Anc 
now  come  along." 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  171 

I  dressed,  and  we  went  out. 

We  long  sauntered  along  in  the  Petersburg  slush.  It 
was  autumn.  A  strong  wind  was  blowing  from  the  sea, 
and  the  Neva  had  risen.  We  walked  along  the  Palace 
Quay.  The  angry  river  was  foaming  and  whipping  the 
granite  parapets  of  the  Quay  with  its  waves.  From  out 
of  the  blackness  in  which  the  opposite  side  had  become 
hidden  there  came  occasional  spurts  of  flame,  quickly 
followed  by  a  loud  roar.  The  guns  in  the  Fortress  were 
firing.     The  water  was  rising. 

"  I  should  like  it  to  rise  still  higher.  I  have  never 
seen  a  flood,  and  it  would  be  interesting, '*  said  Helfreich. 

We  sat  for  a  long  time  on  the  Quay,  silently  watching 
the  stormy  darkness. 

"  It  will  not  rise  any  more,"  said  Helfreich  at  length  ; 
"  the  wind  seems  to  be  dying  down.  I  am  sorry  I  have 
not  seen  a  flood.  .  .  .     Let  us  go." 

"  Where  ?" 

"  Follow  our  noses  .  .  .  Come  with  me.  I  will  take 
you  to  a  place.  Nature  in  a  silly  humour  frightens  me. 
Better  to  go  and  look  at  human  folly." 

"  Where  is  it  ?     Senichka  ?" 

"  I  know.  .  .  .     Izvoschik  !"  he  called  out. 

We  got  in  and  started  off.  On  the  Fontanka,  opposite 
some  gaudily  painted  wooden  gates,  decorated  with  carved 
work,  Helfreich  stopped  the  izvoschik.  We  passed 
through  a  dirty  yard  between  the  two-storied  wings  of 
an  old  building.  Two  powerful  reflector  lamps  threw 
brilliant  rays  of  light  into  our  faces.  They  hung  on 
either  side  of  a  flight  of  steps  leading  to  the  entrance,  old, 
but  also  plentifully  decorated  with  different  coloured 
woodwork,  carved  in  the  so-called  Russian  taste.  In 
front  and  behind  us  people  were  going  in  the  same  direc- 
tion as  ourselves — men  in  furs,  women  in  long  wraps  of 
pretentiously  costly  material,  silk -woven  flowers  on  a 
plush  ground,  with  boas  round  their  necks,  and  white 
silk  mufflers  on  their  heads.    All  were  making  for  the 


172  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

entrance,  and,  having  gone  up  several  steps  of  the  stair- 
case, were  taking  off  their  wraps,  displaying  for  the  most 
part  pitiful  attempts  at  luxurious  toilettes,  in  which  silk 
was  half  cotton,  bronze  took  the  place  of  gold,  cut  glass 
did  substitute  for  brilliants  and  powder,  carmine  and 
terre  de  sienne  took  the  place  of  freshness  of  face  and 
brilliancy  of  eyes. 

We  took  tickets  at  the  booking-office,  and  passed  into 
a  whole  suite  of  rooms  furnished  with  little  tables.  The 
stifling  atmosphere,  reeking  of  strange  fumes,  seized  me. 
Tobacco  smoke  mingled  with  the  fumes  of  beer  and  cheap 
pomade.  The  crowd  was  a  noisy  one.  Some  were  aim- 
lessly wandering  about,  others  were  seated  behind 
bottles  at  the  little  tables.  There  were  men  and  women, 
and  the  expression  on  their  faces  was  strange.  They  all 
pretended  to  be  jovial,  and  were  chatting  away  about 
something — what,  goodness  knows  !  We  sat  down  at 
one  of  the  tables,  and  Helfreich  ordered  some  tea.  I 
stirred  mine  with  a  spoon  and  listened,  as,  just  alongside 
me,  a  short  fat  brunette  with  a  gipsy  type  of  face,  slowly, 
and  with  a  tone  of  dignity  in  her  voice  which  betrayed  a 
strong  German  accent  and  some  pride,  replied  to  a  query 
from  the  young  man  with  whom  she  was  sitting  as  to 
whether  she  often  came  here. 

"  I  come  here  once  a  week.  I  cannot  come  oftener, 
because  I  have  to  go  to  other  places.  The  day  before; 
yesterday  I  was  at  the  German  Club  ;  yesterday  at  the! 
Orpheus  ;  to-day  here  ;  to-morrow  at  the  Bolshoi  Theatre  ; 
the  day  after  to-morrow  at  the  Prikazchick  ;  then  to 
the  operetta  and  the  Chateau  de  Fleurs.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  go 
somewhere  every  day,  and  so  the  time  passes,  '  die  ganze 
Woche.'  ..."  And  she  proudly  looked  at  her  companion, 
who  had  already  curled  up  at  hearing  so  magnificent  a 
programme  of  delights. 

We  got  up,  and  began  to  stroll  through  the  rooms.  At 
the  extreme  end  a  wide  door  led  into  a  hall  for  dancing. 
The  windows  had  yellow  silk  blinds,  the  ceiling  was  a 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  173 

painted  one ;  and  there  were  rows  of  cane  chairs  along  the 
walls  ;  whilst  in  a  corner  of  the  hall  there  was  a  large 
white  alcove,  shell-shaped,  in  which  the  orchestra  of 
fifteen  men  sat.  The  women,  for  the  most  part  arm-in- 
arm, walked  up  and  down  the  hall  in  pairs  ;  the  men  sat 
on  the  chairs  and  watched  them.  The  musicians  were 
tuning  their  instruments.  The  face  of  the  first  violin 
seemed  familiar  to  me. 

'*  Is  it  you  ?  Theodore  Carlovich  !"  I  asked,  touching 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

Theodore  Carlovich  turned  round  towards  me.  My 
goodness  !  how  flabby  he  had  become  !  bloated  and  grey. 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,  Theodore  Carlovich.  And  what  do  you 
want  ?" 

*'  Don't  you  remember  me  at  the  G3minasium  ?  .  .  . 
You  used  to  come  with  your  violin  for  the  dancing 
lessons.  ..." 

"  Ach  !  yes.  And  now  I  sit  here  on  a  stool  in  a  corner 
of  the  hall.    I  remember  you. . . .    You  waltzed  very  well." 

"  Have  you  been  long  here  ?" 

"  This  is  my  third  year." 

"  Do  you  remember  how  you  came  early,  and  in  the 
empty  room  played  Ernst's  '  Elegy,'  and  I  listened  ?" 

The  musician's  bleary  eyes  glistened. 

"  You  heard  !  you  listened  !  I  thought  that  no  one 
heard.  Yes,  I  could  play  once.  Now  I  cannot.  Here 
now,  on  all  holidays.  At  the  booths  in  the  day-time,  and 
night-time  here.  ..."  He  remained  silent  for  a  bit.  "  I 
have  four  boys  and  one  girl,"  he  murmured  quietly. 
"  One  of  the  boys  finishes  at  the  Anne  Schule  this  year, 
and  is  going  to  the  University.  I  cannot  play  Ernst's 
'  Elegy.'  " 

The  leader  waved  his  baton  several  times,  and  the  small 
but  loud  orchestra  broke  into  a  deafening  polka.  The 
leader,  having  marked  the  time  three  or  four  times, 
joined  with  his  squeaky  violin  in  the  general  noise. 
Couples  began  to  revolve  whilst  the  orchestra  thundered. 


174  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

"  Come  on,  Senia,"  I  said  ;  "  this  is  boring.  Let's  go 
home  and  have  some  tea,  and  talk  of  something  nice." 

"  *  Of  something  nice  ?'  "  he  inquired,  with  a  smile. 
"  All  right ;  let's  go." 

We  began  to  push  our  way  through  towards  the  exit, 
when  suddenly  Helfreich  stopped. 

"  Look  !"  said  he.     "  Bezsonow  !" 

I  looked,  and  saw  Bezsonow.  He  was  sitting  at  a 
marble-topped  table,  on  which  stood  bottles  of  wine, 
glasses,  and  something  else.  Bending  over,  his  eyes 
sparkling,  he  was  whispering  something  in  an  animated 
manner  to  a  woman  dressed  in  black  silk  sitting  at  the 
same  table,  but  whose  face  I  could  not  see.  I  could  only 
note  her  well-made  figure,  delicate  hands  and  neck,  and 
her  black  hair  smoothly  done  up  on  the  top  of  her  head. 

"  Thank  Fate  !"  said  Helfreich  to  me.  "  Do  you  know 
who  she  is  ?     Rejoice  !     That  is  your  Charlotte  Corday." 

''  She  ?     Here  !" 


Bezsonow,  holding  a  glass  of  wine  in  his  hand,  raising 
a  pair  of  excited  and  very  red  eyes,  saw  me,  and  his  face 
clearly  expressed  his  dissatisfaction. 

He  got  up  from  his  place  and  came  to  us. 

"  You  here  ?     What  has  brought  you  here  ?" 

"  We  came  to  look  at  you,"  I  replied,  smiling  ;  "  and  I 
am  not  sorry,  because,  because " 

He  caught  my  glance  as  it  ran  over  his  friend,  and  he 
abruptly  interrupted  me. 

"  Do  not  hope  for  this.  .  .  .  Helfreich  has  told  you 
this.  .  .  .  But  nothing  will  come  of  it.  I  will  not  allow 
it.  I  shall  take  her  away.  ..."  And,  briskly  going  up 
to  her,  he  said  loudly  : 

*'  Nadejda  Nicolaievna,  let  us  go. 

She  turned  her  head,  and  I  saw  for  the  first  time  her 
astonished  face. 

Yes,  I  saw  her  for  the  first  time  in  this  haunt.     She 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  177 

not  to  behave  like  this.  ...     I  wanted  to  ask  you  yet 
another  favour." 

Her  face  took  a  mournful  expression. 

*'  Not  to  behave  like  this  7"  said  she.  "  I  am  afraid 
that  I  cannot  behave  in  any  other  way.  I  have  lest  the 
habit.  Well,  all  right ;  so  as  to  please  you  I  wil  try. 
And  the  favour  ?" 

With  a  lot  of  stuttering  and  mixing  up  of  my  woiis  I 
confusedly  explained  to  her  the  matter.  She  listeied 
attentively,  fixing  her  grey  eyes  straight  on  me.  Eitier 
the  strained  attention  with  which  she  listened  to  my  woids 
or  something  else  gave  her  glance  a  stern  and  almost  crtel 
expression. 

**  All  right,"  she  said  at  length.  "  I  understand  whai 
you  want.     I  will  make  my  face  like  that." 

"  That  will  not  be  necessary,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  ; 
only  your  face.  ..." 

"  All  right,  all  right.     When  shall  I  come  ?" 

"  To-morrow  at  eleven  o'clock,  if  possible." 

"  So  early  ?  Well,  that  means  I  must  get  to  bed  now. 
Senichka,  will  you  see  me  home  ?" 

"  Nadejda  Nicolaievna,"  said  I,  "  we  have  not  arranged 
about  one  thing  :  it  cannot  be  done  for  nothing." 

"  What  !  you  will  pay  me  ?"  she  said  ;  and  I  felt  that 
there  was  a  ring  of  wounded  pride  in  her  voice. 

"  Yes,  pay  ;  otherwise  it  is  off,"  said  I  decisively. 

She  threw  a  scornful,  even  insolent,  glance  at  me ;  but 
almost  immediately  her  face  took  on  a  thoughtful  ex- 
pression. We  both  kept  silent.  I  felt  awkward,  whilst 
a  faint  flush  showed  on  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes 
glinted. 

"  All  right,"  she  said  ;  "  pay.  Give  me  what  other 
models  get.  How  much  shall  I  get  altogether  for 
Charlotte,  Senichka  ?" 

"  Sixty  roubles,  I  should  think,"  he  replied. 

"  And  how  long  will  it  take  to  paint  her  ?" 

"  A  month." 

12 


178  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

"  Gooi,  very  good  !"  she  exclaimed  vivaciously.  "  I 
will  try  to  earn  your  money.     Thank  you  !" 

She  ■  ut  out  her  thin  hand  and  firmly  pressed  mine. 

"  H(  is  spending  the  night  with  you  ?"  she  asked 
turniig  to  me. 

*'  "^es,  yes,  with  me." 

"  Twill  let  him  go  directly  he  has  seen  me  home." 

Ii  half  an  hour's  time  I  was  home,  and  five  minutes 
later  Helfreich  returned.  We  undressed,  laid  down,  and 
pu  out  the  candles.     I  had  already  begun  to  doze. 

*  Are  you  asleep,  Lopatin  ?"  suddenly  sounded 
Senichka's  voice  through  the  darkness. 

"  No  ;  why  ?" 

"  Because  I  would  straight  away  give  my  left  hand  if 
only  this  woman  was  a  good  and  pure  one,"  said  he  in 
an  agitated  voice. 

"  Why  not  the  right  hand  ?"  I  asked  sleepily. 

"  Duffer  !  How  would  I  be  able  to  paint  then  ?"  he 
asked  me  seriously. 

VI 

When  I  awoke  the  next  day  the  grey  morning  was 
already  looking  in  through  the  window. 

Having  glanced  at  the  dimly  lighted,  pale,  kind-looking 
face  of  Helfreich  asleep  on  the  couch,  and  having  recalled 
the  evening  before,  and  that  I  had  a  model  for  my  picture, 
I  turned  over  on  my  side  and  again  lapsed  into  a  light 
early  morning  slumber. 

"  Lopatin  !"  resounded  a  voice.  I  heard  it  in  my  sleep. 
It  accorded  with  my  dream,  and  I  did  not  awake,  but 
somebody  touched  me  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Lopatin  !  wake  up  !"  said  the  voice. 

I  jumped  to  my  feet  and  saw  Bezsonow. 

*'  Is  that  you.  Serge  Vassilivich  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  you  did  not  expect  me  so  early  ?"  said  he 
quietly.  "  Speak  softer  ;  I  do  not  want  to  wake  up*  the 
hunchback." 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  175 

was  sitting  here  with  this  man  who  sometimes  descended 
from  his  life  of  egoism  and  arrogant  self-conceit  to  this 
debauchery.  She  was  sitting  behind  an  empty  bottle. 
Her  eyes  were  a  little  bloodshot,  her  pale  face  wals  worn, 
her  dress  was  untidy  and  loud.  Around  us  pressed  a 
crowd  of  holiday-makers — merchants  despairing  o^f  the 
possibility  of  living  without  drinking,  unfortunate  shop- 
men spending  their  lives  behind  counters  and  ge\!ting 
away  from  their  wretched  thoughts  only  in  these  haunts 
of  fallen  women,  and  girls  whose  lips  had  only  just 
touched  the  horrible  cup,  a  few  young  milliners'  hands, 
and  shop-girls.  ...  I  saw  that  she  was  falling  into  that 
abyss  of  which  Bezsonow  had  spoken  to  me,  if,  indeed,  she 
had  not  already  fallen. 

"  Come  along,  come  along,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna ! 
Let  us  go,"  exclaimed  Bezsonow  impatiently. 

She  rose,  and  looking  at  him  with  surprise,  asked  : 

"  Why  ?     Where  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  stop  here.  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  then,  you  can  go.  .  .  .  This,  I  think,  is  your 
friend  and  Helfreich." 

*'  Did  you  hear  what  I  said  ?  Listen,  Nadia  ..."  said 
Bezsonow  roughly. 

She  knitted  her  brows  and  threw  a  look  of  hate  at  him. 
'  "  Who  gave  you  the  right  to  talk  to  me  like  this  ? 
Senichka,  old  boy,  how  are  you  ?" 

Simon  took  her  hand  and  gave  it  a  hearty  squeeze. 

"  Look  here,  Bezsonow,"  said  he  ;  *'  stop  fooling.  Go 
home  if  you  want,  or  stay  here  ;  but  Nadejda  Nicolaievna 
will  stay  here  with  us.  We  have  some  business  with  her, 
and  it  is  very  important  business.  Nadejda  Nicolaievna, 
allow  me  to  introduce  my  friend,  and  his  friend  also," 
pointing  to  the  frowning  Bezsonow,  *'  and  an  artist." 

"  How  she  loves  pictures,  Andrei !"  suddenly  said  he 
to  me  in  raptures.  "  Last  year  I  took  her  to  the  Exhibi- 
tion, and  we  saw  your  studies.     Do  you  remember  ?" 

"  Remember  ?"  she  answered. 


176  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

"  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  !"  said  Bezsonow  once  again. 

"  Leave  me  alone.  ...  Go  where  you  like.  I  am  going 
to  stay  bere  with  Senia  and  this  Mr.  .  .  .  Lopatin.  I  warn 
to  havei  a  rest  .  .  .  from  you  ..."  she  suddenly  exclaimed, 
seeing  that  Bezsonow  was  going  to  say  something  more. 
"  I  avn  sick  of  you.     Leave  me  alone.     Clear  out  !  .  .  ." 

He  turned  abruptly,  and  went  off  without  saying  a 
woru  to  any  of  us. 

"  That's  better.  .  .  .  Now  he  has  gone  ..."  said 
Nadejda  Nicolaievna,  giving  a  deep  sigh. 

"  Why  do  you  sigh,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  ?"  asked 
Senichka. 

"  Why  ?  Because  what  is  allowable  for  all  these 
cripples  " — with  a  movement  of  her  head  she  indicated 
the  crowd  which  surged  around  us — "  is  not  allowable  for 
him.  .  .  .  Well,  never  mind  ;  it  is  sickening  and  boring. 
No,  not  boring  ;  it's  worse.  There  is  no  word  for  it. 
Senichka,  treat  me  with  something  to  drink." 

Simon  looked  at  me  plaintively. 

"  You  see,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna,  I  should  be  glad  to, 
but  I  cannot ;  he  .  .  ." 

**  What  about  him  ?     He  can  drink  with  us." 

"  He  will  not  stay." 

*'  Well,  then,  you." 

"  He  will  not  let  me." 

'*  That's  bad.  .  .  .     Who  can  stop  you  ?" 

**  I  have  given  my  word  that  I  will  obey  him." 

Nadejda  Nicolaievna  looked  at  me  closely. 

"  That's  it,  is  it  ?"  she  said.  "  W^ell,  do  as  you  like. 
If  you  don't  want  to,  you  needn't.  I  will  drink  by 
myself.  ..." 

"  Nadejda  Nicolaievna,"  I  began,  "  forgive  me  that  at 
our  first  meeting  .  .  ." 

I  felt  the  crimson  rush  to  my  cheeks.  She  smiled  and 
looked  at  me. 

''  Well,  what  ?" 

"  That  at  our  first  meeting  I  ask  you  .  .  .  not  to  do  this, 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  179 

"  What  do  you  want  ?'* 

"  Dress,  wash,  and  I  will  tell  you.  We  will  go  into  the 
other  room.     Let  him  sleep." 

I  collected  my  clothes  under  my  arm,  and,  picking  up 
my  boots,  went  to  dress  in  the  studio.  Bezsonow  was 
very  pale. 

"  You  apparently  did  not  sleep  last  night  ?"  I 
asked. 

"  No,  I  slept ;  but  I  got  up  very  early  and  worked. 
Tell  them  to  give  us  tea,  and  we  will  talk.  By  the  way, 
show  me  your  picture." 

"  Not  worth  while  now.  Serge  Vassilivich.  But  wait 
a  bit ;  I  shall  soon  finish  it  in  its  corrected  and  proper 
form.  Perhaps  it  is  displeasing  that  I  have  gone  con- 
trary to  your  wishes,  but  you  would  not  believe  how  glad 
I  am  that  I  shall  finish  it,  and  that  this  has  happened. 
Anyone  better  than  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  I  could  not 
wish  for." 

"  I  shall  not  allow  you  to  paint  her,"  said  he  dully. 

"  Serge  Vassihvich,  you  have  apparently  come  here  to 
quarrel  with  me." 

"  I  will  not  allow  her  to  be  with  you  every  day,  to  spend 
whole  hours  with  you.  ...     I  will  not  allow  her." 

"  Have  you  such  power  ?  How  can  you  forbid  her  ? 
How  can  you  forbid  me  ?"  I  asked,  feeling  my  temper 
rising. 

"  Power  .  .  .  power.  ...  A  few  words  will  be  sufficient. 
I  will  remind  her  what  she  is.  I  will  tell  her  what  sort  of 
person  you  are  ;  I  will  tell  her  of  your  cousin,  Sophy 
Michailovna.  ..." 

"  I  will  not  allow  you  to  make  mention  of  my  cousin. . .  . 
If  you  have  any  right  to  this  woman — even  if  it  is  true 
what  you  have  told  me  of  her  ;  even  if  she  has  fallen  ;  if 
tens  of  others  have  the  same  right  as  you  to  her — you 
may  have  a  right  to  her,  but  you  have  no  right  to  my 
cousin.  I  forbid  you  to  mention  anything  about  my 
cousin  to  her  !    Do  you  hear  me  ?" 


i8o  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

I  felt  that  there  was  a  threatening  ring  in  my  voice. 
He  was  beginning  to  exasperate  me. 

"  Oho  !  you  are  showing  your  claws  !  I  did  not  know 
you  had  any.  Very  well ;  you  are  right.  I  have  no  rights 
whatever  to  Sophy  Michailovna.  I  will  not  dare  to  take 
her  name  in  vain.     But  this  other  .  .  .  this  ..." 

In  his  excitement  he  several  times  paced  from  corner 
to  corner  of  the  room.  I  saw  that  he  was  seriously  upset. 
I  did  not  know  what  was  to  be  done  with  him.  In  our 
last  conversation  he  had  in  words  and  tone  expressed 
such  undisguised  contempt  for  this  woman,  and  now  .  .  . 
surely  ?  .  .  . 

*'  Serge  Vassilivich,"  I  said,  "  you  love  her  !" 

He  stopped  short,  looked  at  me  in  a  strange  manner, 
and  abruptly  said  : 

"  No." 

"  Well,  then,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?  Why 
have  you  raised  this  storm  ?  I  cannot  believe  that  you 
are  consumed  with  the  rescuing  of  my  soul  from  the  clav\^s 
of  this  imaginary  devil  ?" 

"  That's  my  business,"  said  he.  "  But,  remember,  by 
hook  or  by  crook  I  shall  stop  you.  ...  I  shall  not  allow 
it.     Do  you  hear  ?"  he  cried  out  hotly. 

I  felt  the  blood  rush  to  my  head.  In  the  corner  where 
I  was  standing  at  this  moment  there  was  a  heap  of  odds 
and  ends — canvases,  brushes,  a  broken  easel,  and  there 
was  also  a  stick  with  a  sharp  iron  tip,  on  to  which  a 
large  umbrella  was  screwed  for  summer  work.  By  chance 
I  had  taken  this  lance  into  my  hand,  and  when  Bezsonow 
said,  "  I  will  not  allow,"  I  drove  the  sharp  end  with  all 
my  might  into  the  floor.  The  piece  of  iron  went  a 
vershok  into  the  wood. 

I  did  not  say  a  word,  but  Bezsonow  looked  at  me  with 
puzzled  and,  it  seemed  to  me,  even  frightened  eyes. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  he ;  "I  am  going.  You  are  over- 
irritated." 

I  had  already  succeeded  in  cooling  down. 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  i8i 

"  Wait  a  moment/*  said  I ;  "  stop." 

"  No,  I  cannot.     Au  revoir." 

He  went.  With  an  effort  I  pulled  the  lance  out  of 
the  floor,  and  I  remember  I  felt  with  my  finger  the  slightly 
warm,  bright  piece  of  iron.  For  the  first  time  it  entered 
my  head  that  this  was  an  awful  weapon,  with  which  it 
would  be  easy  to  kill  a  man  outright. 

Helfreich  went  off  to  the  Academy,  and  I  waited  calmly 
for  my  model.  I  put  on  an  entirely  new  canvas,  and 
made  all  the  necessary  preparations. 

I  cannot  say  that  I  thought  then  only  of  my  picture. 
I  recalled  the  evening  before,  with  its  strange  setting,  such 
as  I  had  never  previously  seen,  and  the  unexpected  and, 
for  me,  happy  meeting  with  this  strange  woman — this 
fallen  woman,  who  at  once  attracted  all  my  sympathy — 
and  the  strange  behaviour  of  Bezsonow.  .  .  .  What  does 
he  want  from  me  ?  Is  he  really  not  in  love  with  her  ?  If 
not,  why  this  contemptuous  attitude  towards  her  ?  Could 
he  not  surely  save  her  ? 

I  thought  of  all  this  as  my  hand  travelled  over  the 
canvas  with  the  charcoal.  Again  and  again  I  made 
sketches  of  the  pose  in  which  I  wanted  to  place  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna,  only  to  wipe  them  out  one  after  another. 

Punctually  at  eleven  o'clock  the  bell  rang.  A  minute 
later  she  appeared  for  the  first  time  on  the  threshold  of 
my  room.  Oh,  how  well  I  remember  her  pale  face  when, 
in  agitation  and  shamefacedly  (yes,  shame  had  replaced 
her  yesterday's  expression),  she  stood  silently  at  the 
door  !  She  literally  did  not  dare  to  come  into  this  room 
where  she  afterwards  found  happiness,  the  sole  bright 
ray  in  her  life,  and  .  .  .  destruction — but  not  that  de- 
struction of  which  Bezsonow  spoke.  ...  I  cannot  write 
about  this.     I  will  wait  a  little  and  get  calm. 


i82  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 


VII 

Sonia  does  not  know  I  am  writing  these  bitter  pages. 
She  sits  every  day,  as  of  old,  near  my  bed  or  arm-chair. 
My  other  friend  also  often  comes — my  poor  old  hunch- 
back. He  has  grown  very  thin,  and  has  wasted  away, 
and  for  the  most  part  keeps  silent.  Sonia  says  he  is 
working  stubbornly.  God  grant  him  happiness  and 
success  ! 

She  came,  as  she  promised,  punctually  at  eleven  o'clock. 
She  entered  timidly,  bashfully  answered  my  greeting, 
and,  without  saying  another  word,  sat  down  in  an  arm- 
chair standing  in  a  corner  of  the  studio. 

"  You  are  very  punctual,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna,"  I 
said,  squeezing  some  paints  on  to  a  palette. 

She  glanced  at  me,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  to  thank  you  for  agreeing  to  sit," 
I  continued,  feeling  myself  turning  red  from  confusion.  I 
wanted  to  say  something  quite  different  to  her.  I  had 
been  so  long  unable  to  find  a  model  that  I  had  quite  given 
up  the  picture. 

"  Are  there  really  none  at  the  Academy  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  there  are,  only  not  suitable.     Look  at  this  face." 

I  took  the  picture  of  Anna  Ivanovna  from  amongst  the 
bundle  of  rubbish  lying  on  the  table,  and  handed  it  to 
her.     She  looked  at  it,  and  smiled  faintly. 

"  Yes  ;  she  is  not  what  you  want,"  said  she.  "  That 
is  not  Charlotte  Corday." 

"  You  know  the  history  of  Charlotte  Corday  ?"  I  asked. 

She  glanced  at  me  with  a  strange  expression  of  surprise, 
mixed  with  some  bitterness  of  feeling. 

"  Why  should  I  not  know  ?"  she  asked.  **  I  have  been 
to  school.  I  have  forgotten  much  now,  leading  this  kind 
of  life  ;  but,  for  all  that,  I  remember  some  things,  and 
such  things  as  the  story  of  Charlotte  Corday  it  is  im- 
possible to  forget." 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  183 

"  Where  were  you  at  school,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  ?'* 
**  Why  do  you  want  to  know  ?     If  possible,  let  us 
begin." 

Her  tone  suddenly  changed.  She  spoke  these  words 
jerkily  and  gloomily,  as  she  had  spoken  the  night  before 
to  Bezsonow. 

I  said  nothing.  Having  got  out  of  a  cupboard  the 
dark-blue  dress  long  ago  made  by  me,  the  cap,  and  all 
the  accessories  of  the  costume  of  Charlotte  Corday,  I 
begged  her  to  go  into  the  next  room  and  change.  I  had 
scarcely  got  everything  ready  when  she  came  back. 
Before  me  stood  my  picture  ! 

"  Ah,  my  goodness,  gracious  me  !"  I  exclaimed,  with 
enthusiasm.  "  How  grand  it  is  !  Tell  me,  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna,  have  we  not  seen  each  other  before  ?  Other- 
wise it  is  impossible  to  explain  it.  I  pictured  this  subject 
to  myself  just  exactly  as  you  look  now.  I  think  I  have 
seen  you  somewhere.  Your  face  must  unconsciously 
have  impressed  itself  on  my  memory.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  where 
have  I  seen  you  ?" 

"  Where  could  you  have  seen  me  ?"  she  asked  in  re- 
turn. "  I  do  not  know  ;  I  never  met  you  before  last 
night.  Begin,  please.  Put  me  as  you  want  me  ;  paint." 
I  begged  her  to  stand,  arranged  the  folds  of  the  dress, 
lightly  touched  her  hands,  giving  to  them  that  helpless 
position  which  I  always  pictured  to  myself,  and  went  to 
the  easel. 

She  stood  before  me.  .  .  .  She  stands  before  me  now, 
there  on  the  canvas.  .  .  .  She  is  looking  at  me  as  if  alive. 
She  has  the  same  sorrowful  and  thoughtful  expression,  the 
same  tokens  of  death  on  the  pale  face  as  on  that  morning. 
I  wiped  off  all  the  charcoal  from  the  canvas,  and  rapidly 
sketched  in  Nadejda  Nicolaievna.  Then  I  began  to  paint. 
Never  before  or  since  have  I  worked  so  quickly  and  suc- 
cessfully. The  time  flew  by  unnoticed,  and  only  after 
an  hour,  when  glancing  at  my  model's  face,  I  noticed  that 
she  was  on  the  point  of  falling  from  fatigue. 


i84  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

"  Forgive,  forgive  me  ..."  I  said,  leading  her  down  from 
the  dais  on  which  she  was  standing,  and  sitting  her  in  a 
chair.     "  I  have  quite  worn  you  out." 

*'  Never  mind,"  she  repUed,  pale,  but  smiling.  "  If 
one  earns  one's  living,  one  must  suffer  a  little.  I  am  glad 
that  you  were  so  engrossed.  May  I  look  ?"  said  she, 
nodding  her  head  towards  the  picture,  the  face  of  which 
she  could  not  see. 

"  Of  course,  of  course  !" 

"  Oh,  what  a  daub  !"  she  cried.  "  I  have  never  before 
seen  the  beginning  of  an  artist's  work.  But  how  in- 
teresting !  .  .  .  And,  do  you  know,  even  in  this  mess  I 
see  what  it  will  be.  .  .  .  You  have  thought  out  a  good 
picture,  Andrei  Nicolaievich.  I  will  try  to  do  all  to  make 
it  a  success  ...  so  far  as  it  depends  on  me." 

"  What  can  you  do  ?" 

"  I  told. you  yesterday.  ...  I  will  put  on  the  expres- 
sion.    It  will  make  the  work  easier.  ..." 

She  quickly  went  to  her  place,  raised  her  head,  dropped 
her  white  hands,  and  on  her  face  was  reflected  all  that  I 
had  dreamt  of  for  my  picture.  Determination  and 
longing,  pride  and  fear,  love  and  hate  ...  all  were  there. 

*'  Like  that  ?"  she  asked.  "  If  like  that,  then  I  will 
stand  as  long  as  you  like." 

"  I  do  not  want  anything  better,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  ; 
but,  surely,  it  will  be  difficult  for  you  to  keep  up  that 
expression  for  long.  Thank  you.  We  will  see.  It  is 
still  far  from  that.  .  .  .  May  I  ask  you  to  have  lunch 
with  me  ?" 

She  refused  for  a  long  time,  but  at  last  consented. 

My  faithful  old  nurse,  Agatha  Alexeievna,  brought  in 
the  lunch,  and  we  for  the  first  time  sat  at  table  together. 
How  often  did  this  happen  afterw^ards  !  .  .  .  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna  ate  little  and  kept  silent.  She  was  evidently 
embarrassed.  I  poured  her  out  a  glass  of  wine ;  she 
drank  it  off  almost  at  a  gulp.  The  crimson  played  on  her 
pallid  cheeks. 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  185 

"  Tell  me,"  she  suddenly  asked,  "  have  you  known 
Bezsonow  long  ?" 

I  did  not  expect  this  question.  Recalling  all  that  had 
passed  between  me  and  Bezsonow  about  her,  I  felt 
confused. 

"  Why  do  you  blush  ?  But  never  mind  ;  only  answer 
my  question." 

"  A  long  time,  since  childhood." 

"  Is  he  a  good  man  ?" 

"  Yes,  in  my  opinion  he  is  a  good  man.  He  is  honour- 
able, and  works  hard.  He  is  very  talented.  He  behaves 
very  well  to  his  mother." 

"  He  has  a  mother  ?     Where  is  she  ?" 

"  In .     She  has  a  little  house  there.     He  sends 

her  money,  and  sometimes  goes  there  himself.  I  have 
never  seen  a  mother  more  in  love  with  her  son." 

"  Why  does  he  not  bring  her  here  ?" 

"  Apparently  she  does  not  want  to  come.  .  .  .  But  I 
do  not  know.  .  .  .  She  has  her  house  there,  and  is  accus- 
tomed to  the  place." 

**  That  is  not  true,"  said  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  musingly. 
*'  He  will  not  bring  his  mother  here  because  he  thinks 
she  will  be  in  the  way.  I  do  not  know,  but  only 
think  so.  .  .  .  She  embarrasses  him.  She  is  a  provincial, 
the  widow  of  some  small  chinovnik.  She  would  shock 
him." 

She  pronounced  the  '*  shock  "  bitterly  and  deliberately. 

'*  I  do  not  like  the  man,  Andrei  Nicolaievich,"  she 
said. 

"  Why  ?     He  is,  all  the  same,  a  good  fellow." 

"  I  do  not  like  him.  ...  I  am  afraid  of  him.  .  .  .  Well, 
never  mind  ;  let  us  get  to  work." 

She  went  to  her  place.  The  short  autumn  day  was 
drawing  to  a  close. 

I  worked  up  to  twilight,  giving  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  a 
rest  now  and  then,  and  only  when  the  paints  began  to 
become  mingled  in  their  colours,  and  the  model  standing 


i86  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

before  me  on  the  dais  had  already  become  merged  in  the 
darkness,  did  I  lay  down  my  brushes.  .  .  .  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna  changed  her  dress  and  went. 


VIII 

The  same  day  in  the  evening  I  moved  Simon  Ivanovich 
to  my  room.  He  lived  in  the  Sadovaia  Street,  in  a  huge 
house  filled  from  top  to  bottom  with  people,  and  occupying 
almost  an  entire  block  between  three  streets.  The  most 
aristocratic  part  of  the  house  faced  the  Sadovaia,  and 
was  taken  up  with  furnished  rooms  in  the  possession  of 
a  retired  Captain  Grum-Skjebitski,  who  rented  out  his 
quite  large,  but  somewhat  dirty,  rooms  to  budding 
artists,  the  wealthier  class  of  students  and  musicians. 
These  formed  the  preponderating  element  of  those 
lodging  with  the  stern  Captain,  who  was  severely 
solicitous  for  the  good  name  of  what  he  called  his 
*'  hotel.'' 

I  went  up  the  iron  staircase  and  entered  the  passage. 
From  the  first  door  came  fleeting  passages  by  a  violin  ; 
a  little  farther  on  a  'cello  was  booming  away  ;  at  the  end 
of  the  corridor  a  piano  was  thundering.  I  knocked  at 
Helfreich's  door. 

*'  Come  in  !"  he  called  in  a  high  voice. 

He  was  sitting  on  the  floor,  and  was  packing  his  house- 
hold goods  into  a  huge  case.  A  trunk,  already  corded, 
lay  near  it.  Simon  Ivanovich  was  stowing  away  things 
into  the  case  without  any  attempt  at  system.  At  the 
bottom  he  had  placed  a  pillow,  on  it  a  lamp,  which  had 
been  taken  to  pieces  and  wrapped  in  paper  ;  then  followed 
a  small  leather  cushion,  boots,  a  bundle  of  studies,  a  box 
of  paints,  books,  and  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends.  Along- 
side the  case  sat  a  huge  ginger-coloured  cat,  which  gazed 
into  its  master's  eyes.  This  cat,  according  to  Helfreich, 
was  always  on  duty  for  him. 

"  I  am  ready,  Andrei,"  said  Helfreich.     ''  I  am  very 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  187 

glad  you  have  come  to  fetch  me.     Tell  me,  was  there  a 
sitting  to-day  ?     Did  she  come  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes ;  she  came,  Senia  .  .  ."  I  replied,  with 
triumph  in  my  heart.  "  Do  you  remember  in  the  night 
you  said  something  about  giving  your  left  hand  ?" 

"  Well  ?"  said  he,  sitting  on  the  case  and  smiling. 

**  I  understand  you  a  little  now,  Senia.  .  .  ." 

"  Ah  !  Look  here,  Andrei,  Andrei !  help  her  out  of 
it  !  I  cannot.  I  am  a  stupid,  humpbacked  devil.  You 
yourself  well  know  that  I  cannot  even  drag  through  life, 
bearing  only  my  own  burden,  without  outside  help — ■ 
without  you,  for  instance — and  how  could  I  support 
another  ?  I  am  myself  in  want  of  rescue  from  darkness, 
of  someone  to  take  me,  make  me  work,  keep  my  money, 
paint  baskets,  couches,  and  all  the  setting  for  my 
cats.  Ah,  Andrei,  Andrei !  What  should  I  do  without 
you  ?" 

And  in  an  unexpected  burst  of  tenderness  Senichka 
suddenly  jumped  up  from  the  case,  ran  towards  me, 
seized  my  hands,  and  pressed  his  head  to  my  chest.  His 
soft  silky  hair  touched  my  lips.  Then  he  just  as  quickly 
left  me,  ran  to  the  corner  of  the  room  (I  have  a  strong 
suspicion  that  the  dear  chap  brushed  away  a  tear),  and 
sat  himself  down  in  an  arm-chair  standing  in  the  corner 
in  the  shadow. 

**  Well,  you  see,  I  am  not  fit  for  that.  But  you  .  .  . 
you — it  is  different.     Take  her  out  of  it,  Andrei." 

I  said  nothing. 

"  There  was  yet  another  who  could  have  done  so," 
continued  Simon  Ivanovich,  "  but  he  was  unwilling." 

"  Bezsonow  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Yes,  Bezsonow." 

"  Has  he  known  her  long,  Senichka  ?" 

"  A  long   time — longer   than   I  have.     He  is   a  man 

whose  brain  is  nothing  but  compartments  and  drawers. 

He  will  open  one,  take  out  a  ticket,  read  what  is  on  it, 

and  act  in  accordance.     That  is  the  way  in  which  he  sav/ 


i88  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

this  case.  He  sees  a  fallen  woman,  and  immediately  he 
refers  to  his  brain  (the  compartments  are  alphabetically 
arranged),  opens  the  drawer,  and  reads:  *They  never 
return.'  " 

Simon  Ivanovich  said  no  more,  but,  resting  his  chin  in 
his  hand,  thoughtfully  looked  straight  ahead  into  space. 

**  Tell  me  how  they  got  to  know  each  other.  What  are 
the  extraordinary  relations  between  them  ?" 

"  Afterwards,  Andrei ;  I  will  not  begin  now.  And 
perhaps  she  will  tell  you  herself.  Not  '  perhaps,'  but  for 
certain  she  will.  You  are  that  sort  of  man  ..."  said 
Simon  smilingly.  Come  along  ;  I  must  settle  with  the 
Captain." 

'*  Have  you  any  money  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes.     The  cats  save  me." 

He  went  into  the  passage,  called  out  something  to  a 
servant,  and  a  minute  later  the  Captain  himself  ap- 
peared. He  was  a  sturdy,  thick-set  old  man,  very  fresh- 
looking,  with  a  smooth,  clean-shaven  face.  Coming  into 
the  room,  he  bowed  affectedly,  and  gave  his  hand  to 
Helfreich  ;  he  made  the  same  silent  deep  bow  to  me. 

"  What  does  the  gentleman  require  ?"  he  inquired 
courteously. 

"  I  am  leaving  you,  Captain." 

"  That  is  your  business,"  he  replied,  elevating  his 
shoulders.  "  I  have  been  very  pleased  with  you,  sir. 
I  am  glad  when  well-behaved  and  well-educated  people 
patronize  my  hotel.  .  '.  .  The  gentleman's  friend  is  also 
an  artist  ?"  he  inquired,  turning  towards  me  with  a 
second  and  very  exaggerated  bow.  "  Allow  me  to 
recommend  myself :  Captain  Grum-Skjebitski,  an  old 
soldier." 

I  put  out  my  hand  and  gave  him  my  name. 

"  Mr.  Lopatin  !"  exclaimed  the  Captain,  his  face 
assuming  an  expression  of  respectful  astonishment.  "  It 
is  a  famous  name.  I  have  heard  it  from  all  students  at 
the  Academy.     Very  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance. 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  189 

I  wish  you  the  fame  of  Semiradsky  and  Mateik.  .  .  . 
Where  are  you  going  to  ?"  the  Captain  inquired  of 
Helfreich. 

"  To  him  ..."  repHed  Helfreich,  smihng  confusedly. 

"  Although  you  are  taking  an  excellent  lodger  from 
me,  I  do  not  regret  it.  Friendship  has  that  right  ..." 
said  the  Captain,  again  bowing.  "  In  a  minute  I  will 
bring  my  book.  ..." 

He  went  out,  holding  his  head  well  up,  with  a  somewhat 
military  gait. 

"  Where  did  he  serve  ?"  I  asked  Senia. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I  only  know  he  is  not  a  Russian 
Captain.  I  found  that  out  from  his  passport.  He  is 
simply  dvorianin  Kesari  Grum-Skjebitski.  He  tells  every- 
one in  confidence  that  he  was  in  the  Polish  Rebellion. 
There  is  an  old  musket  hanging  on  the  wall  of  his  room." 

The  Captain  brought  his  book  and  accounts.  Having 
referred  to  them  for  two  or  three  minutes,  he  informed 
Helfreich  of  the  amount  owing  for  his  board  and  lodging 
up  to  the  end  of  the  month.  Simon  Ivanovich  settled, 
and  we  parted  on  very  friendly  terms.  When  they  had 
taken  out  all  his  belongings,  Simon  Ivanovich  took  the 
ginger-coloured  cat  under  his  arm.  It  had  for  some  time 
been  rubbing  itself  against  his  leg,  holding  its  tail  high 
and  stiff  like  a  stick,  every  now  and  then  giving  a  short 
mew  (probably  the  desolate  look  of  the  room  alarmed 
it),  and  off  we  started. 


IX 

Another  three  or  four  sittings  passed  by.  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna  used  to  come  to  me  at  ten  or  eleven  o'clock, 
and  remain  until  it  was  dark.  Time  and  again  I  begged 
her  to  stay  and  have  dinner  with  us,  but  as  soon  as  the 
sitting  was  ended  she  invariably  hurried  off  into  the  next 
room,5i  changed  the  dark  blue  dress  for  her  black  dress, 
and  left. 


190  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

Her  face  changed  greatly  during  these  few  days.  A 
melancholy  and  wistful  expression  became  noticeable 
about  her  mouth  and  in  the  depths  of  her  grey  eyes. 
She  seldom  spoke  to  me,  and  only  brightened  up  a  little 
when  Helfreich,  who  continued — in  spite  of  my  efforts 
to  make  him  take  up  something  seriously — to  paint  one 
cat  after  another,  sat  in  the  studio  at  his  easel.  Besides 
his  ginger  model,  some  five  or  six  cats  of  various  ages, 
sex,  and  colour  appeared  from  somewhere  in  our  flat, 
which  Agatha  Alexeievna  invariably  fed,  although  she 
waged  a  never-ending  w^ar  with  them,  consisting  princi- 
pally in  taking  several  of  them  up  under  her  arm  and 
throwing  them  out  on  to  the  back-stairs.  But  the  cats 
used  to  mew  piteously  at  the  door,  and  the  soft  heart  of 
our  faithful  domestic  could  not  withstand  such  appeals  ; 
the  door  would  open,  and  the  models  again  take  pos- 
session of  our  flat. 

How  dearly  I  remember  those  long  quiet  sittings  !  The 
picture  was  nearing  completion,  and  an  indefinable  feeling 
of  depression  was  gradually  stealing  into  my  heart.  I 
felt  that  when  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  ceased  to  be  neces- 
sary for  me  as  a  model  we  should  part.  I  recalled  my 
conversation  with  Helfreich  on  the  day  he  came  to  live 
with  me.  Often  when  I  looked  at  her  pale,  melancholy 
face,  his  words,  "  Ah,  Andrei,  Andrei,  take  her  out  of 
it,"  would  ring  in  my  ears. 

Take  her  out  of  it  !  I  knew  almost  nothing  about  her. 
I  did  not  even  know  where  she  lived.  She  had  left  her 
old  address,  to  which  Helfreich  escorted  her  the  evening 
after  our  first  meeting,  and  was  living  in  another  lodging, 
but  where  neither  Senia  nor  I  could  discover.  Neither 
of  us  knew  her  surname. 

I  remember  once  I  asked  her  it  at  a  sitting,  when  Hel- 
freich was  absent.  He  had  gone  that  morning  to  the 
Academy  (I  made  him  go,  if  only  rarely,  to  the  study 
class),  and  we  spent  the  whole  day  alone.  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna  was   a    little    brighter    than    usual,   and   a 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  191 

little  more  talkative.  Encouraged  by  this,  I  dared 
to  say  : 

*'  Nadejda  Nicolaievna,  even  now  I  do  not  know  your 
surname." 

She  took  no  apparent  notice  of  my  question.  An  almost 
imperceptible  shadow  crossed  her  face,  and  for  a  second 
her  lips  compressed,  as  if  something  had  taken  her  by 
surprise  ;  then  she  went  on  talking.  She  spoke  of  Hel- 
freich,  and  I  saw  that  she  was  thinking  of  what  to  say  in 
order  to  direct  my  attention  and  evade  my  question. 
Finally  she  stopped. 

"  Nadejda  Nicolaievna,'*  I  said,  *'  tell  me  why  you  do 
not  trust  me.     Have  I  ever  shown  even  ..." 

*'  Stop  !"  she  replied  sadly.  "  I  not  trust  you  !  Non- 
sense. .  .  .  Why  should  I  not  trust  you  ?  What  harm 
can  you  do  me  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  .  .  ." 

"  Because  it  is  not  necessary.  Paint,  paint ;  it  will 
soon  be  dark,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  more  brightly. 
"  Simon  Ivanovich  will  soon  be  here,  and  what  will 
you  be  able  to  show  him  ?  You  have  done  almost 
nothing  to-day.     We  spend  the  whole  time  in  talking." 

"  It  will  be  all  right.  ...  I  am  tired.  ...  If  you  like, 
get  down  and  rest  a  little." 

She  came  down  and  sat  on  a  stool  which  stood  in  the 
corner.  I  sat  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  I  had  a  wild 
longing  to  talk  with  her  and  question  her,  but  I  felt  it 
was  becoming  more  difhcult  with  every  sitting.  I  noted 
how  she  sat,  bending  forward  and  holding  her  knees 
with  her  hands,  and  her  lowered  eyes  fixed  on  some  spot 
on  the  floor.  One  of  Senia's  cats  was  rubbing  against 
her  dress,  and  looking  up  in  a  friendly  way  into  her  face, 
purring  quietly  and  kindly.  She  seemed  to  have  become 
frozen  in  this  pose.  .  .  .  What  was  happening  in  that 
proud  and  unhappy  soul  ? 

Proud  !  Yes,  it  was  no  idle  word  which  my  pen  has 
torn  from  me.     At  that  time  I  already  felt  that  her  ruin 


192  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

had  come  from  her  refusal  to  bend.  Perhaps,  had  she 
made  some  concession,  she  would  have  lived  like  the  rest, 
would  have  been  an  interesting  girl  "  with  inscrutable 
eyes  ";  then  she  would  have  married  and  have  become 
engulfed  in  the  sea  of  a  colourless  existence  side  by  side 
with  her  husband,  occupied  in  some  unusually  important 
business  in  some  service.  She  would  have  become  a 
lady  of  fashion,  have  had  her  jour  fixe,  have  educated 
her  children  (son  at  the  Gymnasium  and  daughter  at  the 
Institute)  ;  she  would  have  dabbled  in  "  good  works,'' 
and,  going  along  the  path  ordained  by  the  Almighty, 
would  have  given  her  husband  an  opportunity  of  making 
public  on  the  next  day  in  the  Novoe  Vremia  his  "  deep 
affliction."  But  she  had  gone  off  the  track.  What  had 
compelled  her  to  leave  the  mapped-out  life  of  a  *'  decent 
woman "  ?  I  did  not  know,  and  tormentingly  en- 
deavoured to  read  the  reason  in  her  face.  But  it  re- 
mained immobile.  Her  eyes  were  all  the  time  fixed  on 
one  spot. 

"  I  have  had  a  rest,  Andrei  Nicolaievich,"  she  said, 
suddenly  raising  her  head. 

I  got  up,  looked  at  her,  then  at  the  canvas,  and 
answered  : 

"  I  cannot  work  any  more  to-day,  NadejdaNicolaievna." 

She  glanced  at  me,  seemed  about  to  say  something,  but 
refrained,  and  without  a  word  went  out  of  the  room  to 
dress.  I  remember  I  threw  myself  into  an  arm-chair  and 
covered  my  face  with  my  hands.  An  unintelligible 
longing  feeling  filled  me ;  a  vague  expectancy  of  some- 
thing unknown  and  terrible ;  a  passionate  longing  to  do 
something  for  which  I  could  not  account,  and  a  tenderness 
towards  this  unfortunate  being,  together  with  a  timorous 
feeling  which  possessed  me  in  her  presence — all  this  fused 
into  one  suffocating  impression,  and  I  do  not  remember 
how  long  I  sat  buried  in  almost  complete  oblivion. 

When  I  came  to  myself  she  was  standing  before  me, 
eady  dressed  in  her  own  clothes. 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  193 

"  Au  revoir.'* 

I  rose  and  gave  her  my  hand. 

"  Wait  a  little.  ...     I  want  to  say  something  to  you." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"  A  great,  great  deal,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna.  ...  Sit 
down,  for  goodness'  sake,  for  a  little,  if  only  for  once  not 
as  a  model." 

''  Not  as  a  model  ?  What  else  can  I  be  to  you  ?  God 
grant  that  if  not  a  model,  I  may  not  be  for  you  what  I 
have  been  .  .  .  what  I  am,"  she  added  hurriedly.  "  Good- 
bye. Will  you  soon  finish  the  picture,  Andrei  Nicolaie- 
vich  ?"  she  asked  at  the  door. 

"  I  don't  know.  ...  I  think  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to 
come  to  me  for  another  two  or  three  weeks." 

She  remained  silent,  as  if  unable  to  make  up  her  mind 
to  say  what  she  wanted  to  say. 

*'  Do  you  want  something,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  ?" 

**  Do  any  of  your  friends  want  a  .  .  ."  she  stammered. 

"  A  model .  .  .  ?"  I  interrupted.  "  I  will  try  to  arrange 
it.     I  will  do  all  I  can,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna." 

"  Thank  you.     Good-bye." 

I  had  barely  stretched  out  my  hand,  when  the  bell 
rang.  She  turned  pale,  and  sat  down  on  a  chair.  Bez- 
sonow  came  in. 


He  entered  with  a  free  and  jaunty  air.  He  seemed  at 
first  to  have  grown  thinner  the  few  days  we  had  not 
seen  each  other,  but  after  a  few  minutes  I  changed  my 
opinion.  He  greeted  me  merrily,  bowed  to  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna,  who  remained  seated  in  her  chair,  and  spoke 
with  great  animation. 

"  I  have  come  to  have  a  look.  Your  work  interests 
me  very  much.  I  want  to  find  out  if  you  really  can  do 
anything  now  when  you  have  a  model  better  than  which 
you  cannot  want." 

He  shot  a  glance  at  Nadejda  Nicolaievna.     She  re- 

13 


194  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

mained  seated  as  before.  I  expected  and  wanted  her  to 
go,  but  she  remained  as  if  transfixed  to  her  chair,  and  did 
not  take  her  eyes  off  Bezsonow. 

"  That's  true,''  I  repHed.  "  I  do  not  want  a  better 
model.  I  am  very  grateful  to  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  for 
sitting  to  me." 

Saying  this,  I  moved  the  easel  from  the  wall  and  placed 
it  as  it  ought  to  be. 

**  May  I  look  ?"  said  he. 

He  devoured  the  picture  with  his  eyes.  I  saw  that  it 
astonished  him,  and  my  author's  pride  was  pleasantly 
tickled. 

Nadejda  Nicolaievna  suddenly  rose. 

*'  Au  re  voir  !"  she  said  dully. 

Bezsonow  turned  round  impetuously,  and  made  several 
steps  towards  her. 

"  Where  are  you  off  to,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  ?  I  have 
not  seen  you  for  so  long,  and  when  I  meet  you  almost 
by  chance  you  apparently  run  away  from  me.  Stop  a 
little  longer,  if  only  five  minutes  more.  We  will  go 
together  and  I  will  escort  you  home.  I  have  not  been 
able  to  find  you.  At  your  old  lodging  they  told  me 
you  had  left  the  town.  I  knew  that  wasn't  true.  I  tried 
at  the  Inquiry  Bureau,  but  they  had  not  your  address. 
I  meant  to  ask  again  to-morrow,  hoping  that  by  this 
time  they  had  your  address,  but  now,  of  course,  it  is  not 
necessary.  You  will  tell  us  where  you  live,  and  I  will 
see  you  home." 

He  spoke  quickly  and  with  a  tenderness  in  his  tone 
quite  new  and  strange  to  me.  How  different  this  tone 
from  that  in  which  he  had  spoken  to  Nadejda  Nicolaievna 
the  evening  I  and  Helfreich  had  chanced  upon  them. 

"It  is  not  necessary,  Serge  Vassilivich,  thank  you," 
replied  Nadejda  Nicolaievna.  "  I  can  get  home  by 
myself.  I  do  not  want  any  escort,  and  .  .  .  with  you," 
she  added  quietly,  "  I  have  nothing  to  talk  about." 

He  made  a  movement  of  the  hand  as  if  he  wished  to 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  195 

say  something,  but  only  a  strange  sort  of  noise  came 
from  his  Hps.  I  saw  that  he  was  restraining  himself.  .  .  . 
He  made  several  paces,  and  then,  turning  towards  her, 
said  quietly  : 

*'  Go  !  .  .  .  If  you  do  not  need  me,  so  much  the  better 
for  both  of  us  .  .  .  perhaps  for  all  three.  ..." 

She  went,  giving  my  hand  a  slight  squeeze,  and  we 
were  left  alone.  Soon  Helfreich  arrived.  I  asked 
Bezsonow  to  stay  and  dine  with  us.  He  did  not  answer 
at  first,  occupied  with  some  thought,  then  suddenly 
remembered  himself  and  said  : 

"  Dine  ?  Thank  you.  ...  I  have  not  been  here  for  a 
long  time.     I  wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  you  to-day." 

And  he  did.  At  the  beginning  of  dinner,  he,  for  the 
most  part,  was  silent  or  gave  disjointed  replies  to  Senichka, 
who  talked  without  ceasing  about  his  cats,  which  he  must 
certainly  give  up,  and  about  the  necessity  of  taking  up 
serious  work  ;  but  afterwards,  perhaps  under  the  in- 
fluence of  two  glasses  of  wine,  Helfreich's  spirits  infected 
him,  and  I  must  say  that  I  never  saw  him  so  animated 
and  eloquent  as  he  was  at  that  dinner  and  on  that  evening. 
Towards  the  end  he  entirely  monopolized  the  conversa- 
tion, and  read  us  whole  lectures  on  Foreign  and  Home 
politics.  Two  years  of  "  leader  "  writing  on  every  con- 
ceivable kind  of  question  had  made  him  capable  of  talking 
with  absolute  freedom  on  all  those  matters  about  which 
Helfreich  and  I,  engaged  in  our  studies,  knew  little. 

"  Simon  Ivanovich,"  said  I,  when  Bezsonow  left,  "  I 
am  sure  Bezsonow  knows  Nadejda  Nicolaievna's  sur- 
name." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?"  inquired  Helfreich. 
I  told  him  of  what  had  happened  before  he  came  in. 
"  Why  did  you  not  ask  him  ?     But  I  understand,  I 
know  myself.  ..." 

Why,  indeed,  had  I  not  asked  Bezsonow  ?  Even  now 
I  cannot  answer  that  question.  Then  I  knew  nothing  of 
the  relations  between  him   and  Nadejda  Nicolaievna ; 


196  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

but  even  then  an  uncomfortable  premonition  filled  me 
of  something  unusual  and  mysterious  which  was  to  take 
place  between  these  two  persons.  I  wanted  to  stop 
Bezsonow  in  his  impassioned  speech  about  opportunism  ; 
I  wanted  to  interrupt  his  dissertation  as  to  whether 
capitalism  was  spreading  in  Russia  or  not,  but  every  time 
the  word  died  away  on  my  tongue. 

I  told  Helfreich  this.  I  told  him  that  I  did  not  myself 
know  what  it  was  which  prevented  me  from  talking  of  her. 
There  was  something  between  them.  I  did  not  know 
what.  .  .  . 

Senichka  said  nothing  as  he  paced  the  room  ;  then, 
going  up  to  the  dark  window  and  gazing  into  the  black 
space,  replied  : 

"  But  I  know.  He  despised  her,  and  now  he  is  be- 
ginning to  love  her.  Because,  you  see.  ...  Oh  !  what  a 
hard,  egotistical  and  jealous  heart  this  man  has,  Andrei  !" 
he  exclaimed,  turning  towards  me  and  waving  his  arms. 
"  Beware,  Andrei  !  .  .  ." 

Jealous  heart  ?  Jealous.  ...  Of  what  can  it  be 
jealous  ? 

XI 

From  the  Diary  of  Bezsonow. — Yesterday  Lopatin  and 
Helfreich  met  with  me  Nadia.  Against  my  wish  they 
became  acquainted.  This  morning  I  went  to  Lopatin, 
and  tried  to  stop  their  coming  together,  but  could  do 
nothing.  They  will  see  each  other,  will  sit  together  for 
several  hours  every  day,  and  I  know  how  it  will  end. 

I  am  trying  hard  to  answer  the  question  why  I  am 
taking  such  an  interest  in  all  this  ?  Is  it  not  all  the 
same  to  me  ?  Granted  that  I  have  known  Lopatin  many 
years,  and  sincerely  sympathize  with  this  talented  youth. 
I  do  not  wish  him  ill,  but  an  intimacy  with  a  fallen 
woman,  who  has  passed  through  fire  and  water,  is — a 
catastrophe,  especially  for  such  a  pure  nature  as  his. 
I  have  known  this  woman,  comparatively  speaking,  for 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  197 

a  long  time.  I  knew  her  when  she  was  already  what  she 
is.  I  must  confess  to  myself  that  there  was  a  time  when 
I  had  a  feeling  for  her,  and  when  I  was  attracted  by  her 
not  altogether  ordinary  appearance  and,  as  I  thought, 
her  uncommon  personality.  I  thought  of  her  more  than 
I  should  have  done.  But  I  quickly  conquered  myself. 
Knowing  already  for  a  long  time  that  it  is  easier  **  for  a 
camel  to  go  through  the  eye  of  a  needle  "  than  for  a 
woman  who  has  tasted  of  this  poison  to  return  to  a  normal 
and  honourable  life,  and  watching  the  woman  myself, 
I  convinced  myself  that  there  were  no  guarantees  in  her 
that  could  make  her  an  exception  to  the  general  rule, 
and  with  sorrow  at  heart  I  decided  to  leave  her  to  her 
fate.  Nevertheless,  I  continued  to  see  her.  I  shall 
never  forgive  myself  for  the  mistake  I  made  that  evening 
when  Lopatin  came  to  complain  of  his  failure.  I  made 
a  blunder  when  I  told  him  that  I  knew  of  somebody  who 
would  make  a  good  model.  I  do  not  understand  why 
Helfreich  never  mentioned  this  to  him.  He  has  known 
her  as  long,  if  not  longer,  than  I  have. 

My  indiscretion  and  garrulity  to-day  have  ruined  the 
whole  affair.  I  should  have  been  milder.  I  even  drew 
this  soft-hearted  man  out  of  himself.  He  seized  a  kind 
of  lance  and  drove  it  into  the  floor  with  such  force  that 
the  window-panes  rattled  and  I,  seeing  that  he  was 
irritated  to  the  last  degree,  had  to  leave. 

I  have  not  seen  Lopatin  for  several  days.  Yesterday 
I  met  Helfreich  in  the  street  and  cautiously  led  the  con- 
versation  on  to  his  friend. 

She  goes  there  every  day  ;  the  picture  is  progressing 
rapidly.  How  does  she  behave  ?  Modestly,  with 
dignity.  Never  says  a  word.  Dresses  in  black,  and 
poorly.  Takes  money  for  her  sittings.  Well,  and 
Lopatin  is  very  pleased  at  having  found  such  a  model. 
At  first  he  was  very  lively,  but  now  he  is  inclined  to  be 
thoughtful. 

"  I  do  not  know,  Bezsonow,  why  you  are  so  interested 


198  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

in  all  this,"  said  the  hunchback  to  me  in  conclusion. 
"  You  have  never  done  anything  for  this  woman,  and  there 
was  a  time  when  you  could  have  easily  saved  her.  .  .  . 
Now,  of  course,  it  is  too  late  .  .  .  that  is  too  late  for 
you " 

Too  late  for  you  !  .  .  .  Too  late  for  you  !  .  .  .  What 
did  he  mean  to  say  by  this  ?  Was  it  not  that,  if  too  late 
for  me,  it  is  not  too  late  for  his  friend  ?     Fools  ! 

Nonsense  !  And  this  Helfreich,  who  considers  himself 
his  friend,  who  knows  better  than  I  Lopatin's  relations 
with  his  cousin-fiancee — and  yet  cannot  he  understand 
what  troubles  they  are  preparing  ?  They  will  not  save 
this  woman.  Lopatin  will  break  a  loving  girl's  heart 
and  his  own. 

I  feel  that  I  must,  that  I  am  in  duty  bound  to  do 
something.  I  will  go  to  Lopatin  to-morrow,  and  try 
to  prove  to  him  how  far  he  has  gone.  And  to-day  I 
will  go  to  her. 

I  have  been,  but  did  not  find  her  in.  She  has  gone  no 
one  knows  where.  They  told  me  she  had  sold  all  her 
clothes.  I  tried  to  find  her,  but,  notwithstanding  the 
Inquiry  Bureau  and  the  efforts  of  the  dvorniks,  I  could 
not  find  a  trace  of  her.  To-morrow  I  will  go  and  see 
Lopatin. 

I  must  abandon  my  former  tactics.  I  have  made  a 
mistake  with  Lopatin.  I  thought  from  his  softness  of 
manner  that  I  could  adopt  an  authoritative  tone  with 
him.  I  must  say  that  our  former  relations  to  a  certain 
degree  justified  this  opinion.  I  must,  without  touching 
him,  work  on  this  woman.  There  was  a  time  she  seemed 
to  be  a  little  interested  in  me.  I  think  that  if  I  make  a 
certain  amount  of  effort  I  shall  separate  them.  Perhaps 
I  shall  reawaken  in  her  the  old  feeling,  and  she  will  come 
to  me  ! 

Courting  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  !  The  idea  is  a  wild 
one,  even  to  myself,  but  I  will  not  stop  before  it.     I  feel 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  199 

that  I  have  no  right  to  permit  the  fall  of  Lopatin  and 

the  ruin  of  his  whole  life. 

This  woman  is  laughing  at  me.  I  appealed  to  her 
with  all  the  tenderness  of  which  I  am  capable.  I  even, 
perhaps,  spoke  with  her  in  a  manner  humiliating  to 
myself,  but  she  went  off  only  saying  insulting,  contemp- 
tuous words. 

She  has  changed  marvellously.  Her  pale  face  has 
taken  on  a  certain  impression  of  dignity  not  at  all  in 
keeping  with  her  "  calling."  She  is  modest  and  at  the 
same  time  apparently  proud.  Of  what  is  she  proud  ? 
Looking  intently  at  Lopatin's  face,  I  thought  I  should 
read  there  the  story  of  his  relations  towards  her,  but  I  can 
see  nothing  in  particular.  He  is  somewhat  agitated,  but 
apparently  only  about  his  picture.  It  will  be  a  magnifi- 
cent bit  of  work.     She  stands  on  the  canvas  as  if  alive. 

I  hid  my  rage,  and,  not  showing  that  I  felt  insulted, 
remained  with  Lopatin  and  Helfreich.  We  talked,  and 
they  listened  attentively  to  my  opinions  on  various 
matters  in  which  I  am  at  present  engaged. 

But  what  is  to  be  done  ?  Let  the  matter  go  as  it  is  ? 
Once  I  gave  Lopatin  my  word  not  to  drag  his  cousin, 
Sophy  Michailovna,  into  this  business.  Of  course  I  must 
keep  my  promise.  But  may  I  not  write  to  my  mother  ? 
She  sees  Sophy  Michailovna,  although  not  often,  and  can 
tell  her.  I  shall  not  be  breaking  my  word,  and  at  the 
same  time.  .  .  . 

No,  and  such  a  matter  as  this  cannot  be  left  to  run  its 
own  course.  I  have  no  right  to  do  so.  I  will  compel  this 
woman,  no  matter  what  the  cost,  to  give  up  her  prey.  .  .  . 
It  is  only  necessary  to  find  out  where  she  lives.  Then  I 
will  talk  with  her  .  .  .  and  now  I  will  leave  all  this  and 
go  on  with  my  work.  In  the  empty  and  colourless 
grinding  mill  we  call  life  there  is  only  one  real  absolute 
happiness — the  satisfaction  of  the  worker  when  buried 
in  his  labours.     He  forgets  all  the  trivialities  of  life,  and 


200  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

then,  having  completed  his  task,  can  say  to  himself  with 
pride  :  "  Yes,  to-day  I  have  done  something  beneficial 
and  of  use." 

XII 

Diary  of  Lopatin. — Six  days  have  passed  since  the 
meeting  between  Bezsonow  and  Nadejda  Nicolaievna,  and 
she  has  not  been.  She  merely  wrote  a  few  lines  in  which 
she  begged  me  to  excuse  her,  and  mentioned  something 
about  some  business. 

I  showed  the  note  to  Helfreich,  and  we  both  decided 
that  she  is  ill.  We  must  find  her  at  all  costs.  If  we  knew 
her  name,  we  could  find  her  address  at  an  Inquiry  Bureau, 
but  neither  I  nor  he  knew  it.  It  was  useless  to  ask  Bez- 
sonow. I  was  in  despair,  but  Simon  Ivanovich  promised 
me  to  hunt  her  out  "  even  if  she  were  at  the  bottom  of 
the  sea."  Getting  up  early  the  next  morning,  he  dressed 
with  as  much  care  and  determination  as  if  he  was  starting 
on  some  dangerous  expedition,  and  disappeared  for  the 
whole  day. 

Left  alone,  I  tried  to  work,  but  the  work  wouldn't  go. 
I  took  a  book  from  a  shelf,  and  began  to  read.  The  words 
and  ideas  passed  through  my  brain  without  conveying 
any  impression.  I  made  every  effort  to  devote  my  whole 
attention,  and  yet  could  not  get  beyond  a  few  pages. 

I  shut  the  book — a  clever  and  good  book  which  a  few 
days  ago  I  had  read,  although  with  some  difficulty, 
nevertheless  with  attraction  and  pleasure  such  as  good 
reading  always  affords — and  went  out  to  stroll  through 
the  town. 

A  half-conscious,  vague  hope  of  meeting,  if  not  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna  herself,  at  least  someone  who  could  give  me 
a  hint  about  her,  was  present  the  whole  time,  and  all  the 
time  I  looked  closely  at  the  passers-by,  and  several  times 
crossed  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  street  when  I  saw  a 
woman  at  all  reminding  me  of  her  in  appearance.  But  I 
met  no  one  except  Captain  Grum-Skjebitski  about  four 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  201 

o'clock  (it  was  the  end  of  December,  and  already  dark), 
who  was  walking  along  the  Nevsky  Prospect  with  a  stately 
air  of  importance.  It  was  very  warm  for  the  time  of 
the  year.  The  Captain  was  walking  along  in  quite  a 
smart  fur,  unbuttoned  and  opened  about  the  neck.  A 
flowered-silk  tie  with  a  bright  tie-pin  showed  out  from 
the  fur.  The  Captain's  tall  hat  shone  as  if  polished, 
and  in  his  hand,  encased  in  a  fashionable  yellow  glove 
with  broad  black  stripes,  he  carried  a  big  ivory-headed 
cane. 

Seeing  me,  he  smiled  pleasantly  in  a  patronizing  way, 
and,  making  a  gracious  movement  of  the  hand,  came  up 
to  me. 

**  Glad  to  see  you.  Monsieur  Lopatin,"  said  he.  ''A 
very  agreeable  meeting." 

He  pressed  my  hand,  and,  in  reply  to  my  question  as 
to  his  health,  continued  : 

"  Quite  well,  I  thank  you.  Are  you  merely  out  for  a 
stroll  or  hurrying  somewhere  ?  If  the  former  is  the 
correct  case,  will  you  not  walk  a  little  with  me  ?  I  would 
willingly  turn  and  go  with  you,  but  habit.  Monsieur 
Lopatin  !  I  go  for  a  walk  daily,  and  take  the  Nevsky 
twice  up  and  down.     It  is  a  law  of  mine." 

I  wanted  to  return  home,  and  so  turned  and  went  with 
the  Captain.     He  carried  on  a  dignified  conversation. 

**  This  is  the  second  pleasant  rencontre  to-day,"  said 
he.  "  I  came  across  Mr.  Bezsonow  also  on  the  Nevsky, 
and  learnt  that  he  is  also  a  friend  of  yours." 

**  Wonderful,  Captain  !     So  you  know  Bezsonow,  too  ?" 

**  Ask  me  whom  I  do  not  know  !"  replied  the  Captain, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  When  Mr.  Bezsonow  was  a 
student  he  resided  at  my  hotel.  We  were  excellent 
friends,  upon  my  word  of  honour.  Who  has  not  lived 
with  me,  Monsieur  Lopatin  ?  Many  now  well-known 
engineers,  jurists,  and  authors  know  the  Captain — yes, 
very  many  famous  people  remember  me." 

And  with  this  the  Captain  politely  bowed  to  someone 


202 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 


who  passed  by  rapidly  with  a  preoccupied  clever  face.  A 
look  of  perplexity  was  followed  by  a  smile  and  a  friendly 
nod  of  the  head. 

"  He  does  not  forget  old  friends,  although  he  is  now  of 
high  rank.  That  gentleman,  Monsieur  Lopatin,  is  the 
famous  engineer,  Petritseff.  Also  lived  as  student  with 
me." 

"  And  Bezsonow  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Bezsonow  is  a  very  nice  gentleman.  Has  a  certain 
weakness  for  Us  heaux  yeux  of  the  fair  sex  ..."  added 
the  Captain,  stooping  towards  my  ear. 

I  felt  my  heart  beat  faster.  It  struck  me  that  the 
Captain  must  know  something  also  of  NadejdaNicolaievna. 

The  Captain  again  bowed  to  some  acquaintance,  and 
continued  : 

"  Yes,  if  he  had  not  been  such  a  very  nice  young  gentle- 
man, we  should  have  quarrelled,  Monsieur  Lopatin  ;  but 
I  remember  my  own  youth  ;  besides,  an  old  soldier  even 
now  is  not  indifferent  to  les  heaux  yeux." 

He  gave  me  a  sidelong  glance  and  winked,  whilst  his 
shrivelled-up  little  eyes  became  somewhat  oily. 

"  Captain,"  I  began,   "  I — I  am  very  glad  that  you 
know  Bezsonow.  ...     I,  you  understand,  did  not  kno^ 
this." 

*'  He  only  lived  with  me  for  a  very  short  time." 

*'  Was  he  acquainted  .  .  ." 

I  suddenly  became  ashamed  of  myself.  Something  helc 
my  tongue,  ready  to  utter  the  name  of  Nadejda  Nico- 
laievna.  I  looked  at  the  Captain.  His  eyes,  which  hac' 
suddenly  changed  their  expression,  were  fixed  intentl^ 
on  me.     At  this  moment  he  resembled  a  vulture. 

**  But  you  probably  do  not  know.     Forgive  me," 
finished  confusedly. 

He  looked  at  me,  assumed  a  most  unconcerned  air,  anc 
flourished  his  stick. 

"  Yes,  an  old  soldier  has  something  to  remember  . 
he  continued,  as  if  I  had  asked  him  nothing.     "  I  am  ii 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  203 

my  sixtieth/'  he  added,  mournfully  shaking  his  head. 
*'  I  must  confess  that  I  envy  you,  Monsieur  Lopatin,  but 
only  your  youth/' 

"  Where  did  you  serve.  Captain  ?"  I  inquired,  remem- 
bering Helfreich's  words. 

The  Captain  once  more  became  quite  changed.  His 
face  became  preternaturally  serious.  He  glanced  to  the 
right  and  left,  looked  behind  him,  and,  bending  down  so 
close  that  his  moustache  even  brushed  against  my  ear, 
whispered  : 

"  Between  ourselves,  as  gentlemen  !  You  see  before 
you,  Monsieur  Lopatin,  a  warrior  of  Miekoff  and  Opatoff." 
And  he  stepped  back  a  pace  and  looked  at  me  in  a  manner 
which  seemed  to  demand  astonishment  on  my  part.  I 
made  an  effort  to  assume  an  expression  suitable  to  the 
occasion. 

"  This  is  the  secret  which  I  confide  only  to  my  most 
intimate  friends  ..."  added  the  Captain,  as  again  he 
bent  down  and  again  jumped  back  from  me,  regarding 
me  with  a  triumphant  look. 

There  was  nothing  left  but  to  thank  him  for  his  con- 
fidence, and  part  as  we  had  reached  the  "  Police  "  bridge. 

I  was  angry  with  myself.  I  had  almost  mentioned 
Nadejda  Nicolaievna's  name  to  this  man,  whom  I  did 
not  trust  in  the  least. 

When  I  arrived  home,  Alexeievna  informed  me  that 
"  our  cat  man  "  had  not  yet  returned.  She  served  dinner 
and  stood  at  the  door,  her  face  expressing  keenest  sym- 
pathy at  my  lack  of  appetite. 

"  What  has  happened,  Andrei  Nicolaievich,  that  she 
does  not  come  ?"  she  asked. 

"  She  must  be  ill,  Alexeievna." 

She  shook  her  head,  and,  sighing  deeply,  went  off  to 
the  kitchen  to  bring  me  my  tea.  It  was  long  since  I  had 
dined  without  Helfreich,  and  I  was  very  lonely. 


204  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 


XIII 

After  dinner  they  brought  me  a  letter  from  Sonia. 

I  have  never  hid  anything  from  her.  When  I  die — 
which  will  be  soon  ;  even  now  death  is  not  creeping 
stealthily  towards  me,  but  is  advancing  with  a  firm  tread, 
the  sound  of  which  I  hear  clearly  on  sleepless  nights  when 
I  am  feeling  worse,  when  I  am  racked  with  pain,  and  the 
past  comes  up  before  me — when  I  die  and  she  reads  this 
diary,  she  will  know  that  I  have  never,  never  lied  to  her. 
I  have  written  to  her  all  I  have  thought  and  felt,  and  only 
that  which  I  have  not  myself  suspected  as  being  in  my 
soul,  or  have  not  acknowledged  even  to  myself,  but  per- 
haps vaguely  felt,  has  not  found  a  place  in  my  long  letters 
to  her. 

But  she  understood  me.  Although  but  nineteen,  her 
sensitive,  loving  soul  understood  what  I  did  not  dare  to 
confess  to  myself,  what  I  have  never  once  said  to  myself 
in  actual  words. 

"  You  love  her,  Andrei.     God  grant  you  happiness.  ..." 

I  could  not  read  further.  A  gigantic  wave  surged 
over  me,  overwhelmed  me,  and  almost  deprived  me  of 
consciousness.  I  leant  back  in  the  chair,  and,  holding 
the  letter  in  my  hand  long,  sat  there  motionless  and  with 
closed  eyes,  conscious  only  of  this  wave  which  was  roaring 
and  surging  in  my  soul. 

It  was  true.  I  loved  her.  I  had  not  experienced  this 
feeling  up  till  now.  I  had  described  my  attachment  to 
my  cousin  as  love.  I  was  prepared  in  the  course  of  a 
few  years  to  become  her  husband,  and  perhaps  should  have 
been  happy  with  her  ;  I  should  not  have  believed  it  had 
anyone  told  me  that  I  could  love  another  woman.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  my  fate  had  been  settled.  *'  Here  is 
thy  wife,"  had  said  the  Lord  to  me,  "  and  thou  shalt  have 
none  other."  And  in  this  I  concurred,  undisturbed  for 
the  future,  and  assured  in  my  choice.     To  love  another 


.    NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  205 

woman  seemed  to  me  an  unnecessary  and  unworthy 
caprice. 

And  then  came  this  strange,  unhapp}^  being,  with  her 
broken  life  and  all  her  suffering  in  her  eyes.  Pity  first 
possessed  me  ;  indignation  against  the  man  who  had  ex- 
pressed his  contempt  for  her  made  me  still  more  inclined 
to  take  her  part,  and  then  .  .  .  Then,  I  do  not  know 
how  it  happened  .  .  .  but  Sonia  was  right.  I  loved  her 
with  the  distraction  and  passion  of  the  first  love  of  a  man 
who  has  reached  twenty-five  years  of  age  without  knowing 
love.  I  longed  to  snatch  her  from  the  horrors  which  were 
tormenting  her,  to  take  her  in  my  arms  somewhere  far, 
far  away,  to  fondle  and  press  her  to  my  heart,  so  that 
she  might  forget,  so  as  to  bring  a  smile  on  her  suffering 
face.  .  .  .  And  Sonia  had  said  all  this  in  one  line  of  her 
letter.  .  .  . 

"  Do  not  think  of  me.  I  do  not  want  to  say,  forget 
me  entirely,  but  only  that  you  should  not  think  of  my 
suffering.  I  will  not  commence  to  complain  of  a  broken 
heart — and  do  you  know  why  ?  Because  it  is  not  at 
all  broken.  I  have  been  accustomed  to  look  upon  you 
as  a  brother  and  future  husband.  The  first  was  real ;  the 
second,  I  think,  people  thought  of  and  arranged  for  us. 
I  love  you  above  all  others  in  this  world.  I  need  not 
have  written  this,  because  you  yourself  know  it,  but  when 
I  read  your  last  three  letters  and  told  myself  the  truth 
about  you  and  Nadejda  Nicolaievna — believe  me,  dear, 
I  experienced  not  one  atom  of  grief.  I  understood  that 
I  am  a  sister  for  you,  and  not  a  wife  ;  I  understood  this 
from  my  own  joy  at  your  happiness — joy  mingled  with 
fear  for  you.  I  do  not  hide  this  fear,  but  God  grant  that 
you  may  save  her,  and  be  happy,  and  make  her  happy. 

"  From  what  you  have  written  me  of  Nadejda  Nico- 
laievna, I  think  she  is  worthy  of  your  love.  ..." 

I  read  these  lines,  and  a  new  joyous  feeling  gradually 
took  possession  of  me.  I  did  not  share  Soma's  fears. 
What  and  why  should  I  fear  ?     How  or  when  this  hap- 


2o6  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

pened  I  do  not  know,  but  I  believe  in  Nadejda  Nicolaievna. 
All  her  past  life,  of  which  I  did  not  know,  her  fall — the 
only  thing  I  knew  of  in  her  life — appeared  to  me  as  some 
accident,  unreal,  some  mistake  of  Fate,  for  which  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna  was  not  herself  to  blame.  Something  had 
rushed  at  her,  surrounded  her,  knocked  her  off  her  feet, 
and  thrown  her  in  the  mud,  and  I  would  lift  her  out  of 
this  mire,  would  clasp  her  to  my  heart,  and  there  calm 
this  life  so  full  of  suffering. 

A  sudden  furious  ring  made  me  jump,  I  do  not  know 
why,  and  not  waiting  for  Alexeievna,  shuffling  along  in 
her  slippers  to  open  the  door,  I  rushed  to  it  and  pushed 
back  the  bolt.  The  door  flew  open,  and  Simon  Ivano- 
vich  seized  me  with  both  hands,  danced  about,  and  cried 
out  in  a  radiant,  squeaky  voice  : 

"  Andrei,  I  have  brought  her,  have  brought  her,  brought 
her!  .  .  ." 

Behind  him  stood  a  dark  figure.  I  rushed  to  her, 
seized  her  trembling  hands,  and  commenced  to  kiss  them 
madly,  not  listening  to  what  she  was  saying  in  an  agitated 
voice  as  she  strove  to  restrain  her  sobbing. 


XIV 

We  three  long  sat  together  on  that,  for  me,  memorable 
evening.  We  talked,  joked,  laughed  ;  Nadejda  Nicolai- 
evna was  calm,  and  even  merry.  I  did  not  ask  Helfreich 
where  and  how  he  found  her,  and  he  himself  did  not  say 
a  word  about  it.  Between  us  nothing  was  said  which 
hinted  at  what  I  had  thought  and  felt  before  her  arrival. 
I  cannot  say  it  was  modesty  or  indecision  on  my  part 
which  kept  me  silent.  It  was  simply  I  felt  it  unnecessary 
and  superfluous.  I  feared  to  alarm  her  wounded  soul.  I 
had  never  been  so  talkative  and  merry.  Helfreich  dis- 
played a  kind  of  noisy  enthusiasm,  appeared  radiant, 
chattered  without  ceasing,  and  sometimes  compelled 
Nadejda  Nicolaievna  to  laugh  at  his  sallies.     Alexeievna 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  207 

laid  the  cloth  and  brought  in  the  samovar.  When  she 
had  done  so  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  and,  resting  one 
cheek  on  her  hand,  she  looked  at  us  all  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  at  Nadejda  Nicolaievna,  as  she  made  the  tea  and  did 
the  hostess. 

"  Do  you  want  anything,  Alexeievna  ?"  I  asked. 

*'  Nothing,  my  dear  ;  I  only  want  to  look  at  you  .  .  . 
and  you  are  offended  !''  she  said.  "  An  old  woman  may 
not  even  stand  for  a  minute.  I  was  looking  to  see  how 
the  young  lady  would  act  as  mistress.  She  does  it  very 
well." 

Nadejda  Nicolaievna  bowed  her  head. 

*'  See  how  well.  Formerly  only  men  came  to  you,  who 
poured  out  the  tea  and  did  everything.  Excuse  me  for 
saying  so,  Andrei  Nicolaievich,  but  even  I,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  missed  there  being  no  woman  about.'' 

She  turned,  and  with  short  steps  went  along  the  passage. 
Our  gaiety  came  to  an  end.  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  got 
up  and  commenced  to  pace  the  room.  My  picture  stood 
in  the  corner.  These  last  several  days  I  had  not  gone 
near  it,  and  the  colours  had  dried.  Nadejda  Nicolaievna 
looked  at  the  picture  for  some  time,  and  then,  turning  to 
me,  said  with  a  smile  : 

"  Well,  now  we  shall  soon  finish  it.  I  will  not  give 
you  any  more  of  these  breaks.  It  will  be  ready  long 
before  the  Exhibition  opens.'' 

*'  How  like  you  it  is  !"  broke  in  Senichka. 

She  suddenly  stopped  still,  as  if  some  sudden  thought 
prevented  her  speaking,  and,  with  a  frown  on  her  face, 
went  away  from  the  picture. 

"  Nadejda  Nicolaievna,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Frowning 
again  ?"  I  said. 

"  Nothing  in  particular,  Andrei  Nicolaievich.  ...  I 
really  am  very  like  this  picture.  It  has  come  into  my 
mind  that  many  will  recognize  me — too  many.  ...  I 
can  see  how  it  will  be.  .  .  ." 

She  sighed,  and  the  tears  welled  in  her  eyes. 


2o8  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

*'  I  am  thinking  of  how  many  stories,  questions,  you 
will  have  to  hear,"  she  continued.  "  Who  is  she  ?  Where 
did  he  find  her  ?  And  even  people  who  know  will  ask 
who  I  am,  where  did  I  come  from.  ..." 

"  Nadejda  Nicolaievna.  .  .  ." 

**  You  have  not  been  ashamed  of  me.  Andrei  Nicolaie- 
vich,  you  and  dear  old  Senichka  ;  you  have  treated  me  as 
a  human  being.  .  .  .  The  first  time  for  three  years. 
And  I  could  not  believe  it.  Do  you  know  why  I  left  you  ? 
I  thought  (forgive  me  for  thinking  it) — I  thought  that  you 
were  like  the  rest. 

"  The  picture  was  coming  to  an  end  ;  you  had  been 
polite  and  delicate  with  me,  and  I  have  got  unaccustomed 
to  such  treatment,  and  did  not  trust  myself.  I  did  not 
wish  to  get  a  blow,  because  the  blow  would  have  been 
very  painful,  very  painful  to  me.  ..." 

She  sat  down  in  a  big  arm-chair,  and  pressed  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

**  Forgive  me,"  she  continued.  "  I  did  not  trust  you, 
and  waited  with  terror  for  the  moment  when  you  would 
look  upon  me  in  the  way  to  which  I  have  become  too 
accustomed  during  these  last  three  years,  because  during 
these  three  j^ears  no  one  has  looked  at  me  in  any  other 
way.  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  ;  her  face  twitched  spasmodically,  and  her 
lips  trembled.  She  gazed  into  the  far  corner  of  the  room 
as  if  she  saw  something  there. 

"  There  was  one,  only  one,  who  looked  at  me  not  like 
all  those  .  .  .  and  not  like  you.  .  .  .     But  I  .  .  ." 

I  and  Helfreich  listened  to  her  with  bated  breath. 

"  But  I  killed  him.  ..."  she  said  in  a  scarcely  audible 
tone,  and  a  terrible  access  of  despair  seized  her.  A  wail 
burst  from  her  tortured  breast,  and  a  heart-rending,  child- 
like sobbing  resounded  through  the  room. 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  209 


XV 

From  the  Diary  of  Bezsonow. — I  am  waiting  to  see  what 
will  happen.  I  was  there  the  other  day,  and  saw  them 
together.  All  the  strength  of  will  I  possess  was  insuffi- 
cient to  enable  me  to  continue  wearing  my  mask  of  in- 
difference and  politeness.  I  felt  that  had  I  stayed  there 
another  quarter  of  an  hour  I  should  have  thrown  it  off 
and  revealed  my  true  self.  It  is  impossible  to  recognize 
this  woman.  I  have  known  her  for  three  years,  and  have 
become  accustomed  to  see  her  as  she  has  been  these  three 
years.  Now  I  see  the  change  which  has  taken  place  in 
her,  and  I  do  not  understand  her,  and  do  not  know  whether 
this  change  is  genuine,  or  whether  it  is  only  a  role  being 
played  by  one  accustomed  to  deceive  herself  and  other 
contemptible  beings. 

I  do  not  in  the  least  understand  their  relations.  I  do 
not  even  know  whether  she  has  become  his  mistress. 
For  some  reason  I  do  not  think  so,  and  if  I  am  right  she 
is  more  clever  than  I  thought.  What  is  her  object  ?  To 
become  his  wife  ? 

I  have  read  over  these  lines,  and  I  see  that  all  I  have 
written  is  incorrect,  except  that  she  has  altered.  I  myself 
three  years  ago  saw  something  unusual  in  her,  rarely  met 
amongst  women  in  her  position.  I  myself  almost  took 
on  the  role  of  rescuer  which  Lopatin  is  now  magnani- 
mously playing.  But  I  was  more  experienced  then  than 
she  is  now.  I  knew  that  nothing  would  come  of  it,  and 
gave  it  up  without  even  trying  to  do  anything.  Her 
character,  besides  the  ordinary  obstacles  in  this  respect, 
possessed  one  peculiarity — her  fearful  stubbornness  and 
impudence.  I  saw  that  she  would  wash  her  hands  of 
everything,  and  oppose  my  first  attempt,  and  I  did  not 
make  this  attempt. 

Has  Lopatin  made  it  ?  I  do  not  know.  I  only  see 
that  it  is  impossible  to  recognize  this  woman.     I  know 

14 


210  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

for  certain  that  she  has  abandoned  her  former  mode  of 
Hfe.  She  has  gone  to  some  little  room  into  which  she  does 
not  allow  either  Helfreich  or  her  rescuer  to  enter.  She 
sits  for  him,  and,  in  addition,  does  sewing.  She  lives 
very  poorly.  She  is  like  the  drunkard  who  has  signed 
the  pledge.  Will  she  keep  it  ?  Will  this  sentimental 
artist,  who  has  not  seen  life  and  knows  nothing  of  it,  help 
her  to  keep  it  ? 

Yesterday  I  wrote  mother  a  long  letter.  She  is  sure  to 
do  all,  as  I  imagine  she  will — women  love  to  meddle  in 
such  affairs — and  will  tell  everything  to  Sophy  Michail- 
ovna.     Perhaps  that  will  save  him. 

Save  him  !  Why  should  I  worry  about  his  salvation  ? 
It  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  have  concerned  myself 
so  deeply  in  other  people's  affairs.  Is  it  not  all  the  same 
to  me  what  Lopatin  does  with  this  woman,  whether  he 
drags  her  out  of  the  mire  or  sinks  into  it  with  her,  and, 
in  fruitless  attempts,  undoes  his  own  life  and  casts  aside 
his  talents  ? 

I  am  not  accustomed  to  indulge  in  reflections  or  to  dig 
into  my  soul ;  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  have  been 
looking  deeply  into  it  and  analyzing  my  feelings  in 
detail.  I  do  not  understand  what  is  taking  place  within 
me  now,  and  what  is  compelling  me  to  rouse  myself.  I 
thought  (and  now  think)  that  it  was  only  a  disinterested 
desire  to  avert  a  great  calamity  from  a  man  whom  I  like. 
.  .  .  But  upon  analyzing  my  thoughts  I  see  it  is  not 
altogether  that.  Why,  in  working  to  save  him,  do  I  think 
more  of  her  ?  Why  is  it  her  face,  once  brazen  and  im- 
pudent, but  now  downcast  and  tender,  which  rises  before 
me  every  minute  ?  Why  does  she  and  not  he  fill  my  soul 
with  a  strange  feeling  which  I  cannot  define,  but  in  which 
unkind  feelings  predominate  ?  Perhaps  it  is  true  that  it 
is  not  so  much  that  I  wish  to  do  him  good  as  to  do  her  .  .  . 

What  ?  Harm  ?  No,  I  do  not  wish  to  do  her  harm, 
and  yet  I  would  like  to  tear  her  from  him,  to  deprive  her 
of  his  protection,  in  which  lies,  perhaps,  her  sole  hope. 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  211 

.  .  .  Oh,  surely  it  is  not  that  I  would  like  to  stand  in 
Lopatin's  place  ! 

I  must  see  her  to-day.  This  business  won't  let  me  work 
or  live  in  peace.  My  work  is  being  neglected,  and  these 
last  two  weeks  I  have  not  done  as  much  as  formerly  I 
used  to  do  in  two  days.  I  must  put  an  end  to  it  some- 
how, come  to  an  understanding,  and  explain  all  to 
myself  .  .  .  and  afterwards  what  ? 

Give  her  up  ?  Never  !  All  my  pride  rebels  at  the  mere 
thought.  I  found  her.  I  could  have  saved  her,  and 
would  not.     Now  I  would. 


XVI 

Diary  of  Lopatin. — Helfreich  ran  for  the  doctor  who 
lived  on  the  same  landing  as  ourselves.  I  brought  water, 
and  she  quickly  got  over  her  hysterics.  Nadejda  Nicolai- 
evna  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa  to  which  I  and  Helfreich 
had  carried  her,  and  only  now  and  then  quietly  sobbing. 
I  was  afraid  of  upsetting  her,  and  went  into  the  next  room. 

Unable  to  find  the  doctor,  Simon  Ivanovich  came  back, 
and  found  her  already  quiet. 

She  decided  to  go  home,  and  he  declared  his  intention  of 
escorting  her.  She  pressed  my  hand,  looking  straight 
into  my  eyes  with  her  own  full  of  tears,  and  I  noted  a  kind 
of  timid  expression  of  gratitude  on  her  face. 

A  week,  another,  a  month  passed.  Our  sittings  con- 
tinued. To  tell  the  truth,  I  tried  to  draw  them  out.  I 
do  not  know  if  she  understood  that  I  was  doing  it  inten- 
tionally. I  only  know  that  she  constantly  hurried  me 
on.  She  became  much  calmer,  and  occasionally,  but 
rarely,  was  quite  bright. 

She  told  me  her  whole  history.  For  a  long  time  I 
wondered  whether  I  would  write  it  here  or  not.  And  I 
have  decided  to  say  nothing  of  it.  Who  knows  into  what 
hands  this  diary  may  fall  ?  If  I  could  know  for  certain 
that  only  Sonia  and  Helfreich  would  read  it,  I  should  not 


212  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

talk  of  Nadejda  Nicolaievna's  past.     They  both  know  it 
well.     I,  as  of  old,  have  hid  nothing  from  my  cousin,  and 
in  my  letters  have  written  her  the  whole  of  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna's  long  and  bitter  story.     Helfreich  heard  it  all 
from  her  herself.     Consequently  her  history  in  my  diary 
is  not  necessary  for  him.     As  for  others  ...  I  do  not 
want  others  to  judge  her.     She  told  me  her  whole  life.     I 
w^as  her  judge,  and  forgave  her  all  which,  in  the  opinion  of 
men,  required  forgiveness.     I  listened  to  her  painful  con- 
fession and  narrative  of  her  misfortunes,  the  most  dread- 
ful misfortunes,  such  as  only  a  woman  can  experience, 
and  it  was  not  accusation  which  stirred  in  my  soul,  but 
the  shame  and  humiliating  feeling  of  a  man  who  feels 
himself  guilty  of  the  evil  about  which  they  are  speaking 
to  him.     The  last  episode  in  her  history  filled  me  with 
horror  and  pity.     Her  words  the  evening  that  Helfreich 
found  her  were  no  empty  ones.     She  really  had  killed  a 
man  unintentionally.     He  had  wished  to  save  her,  but 
could  not.     His  weak  hands  were  not  strong  enough  to 
restrain  her  from  the  brink  of  the  abyss,  and,  unable  to 
restrain  her,  he  had  hurled  himself  instead  into  the  pit. 
He  shot  himself.     Dry-eyed  and  with  a  kind  of  set  deter- 
mination, she  related  to  me  the  whole  of  this  awful  his- 
tory, and  I  long  thought  over  it.     Can  her  crushed  heart 
come  once  more  to  life  ?     Can  such  terrible  wounds  heal  ? 
They    did    apparently    heal.     She    became    gradually 
calmer  and  calmer,  and  a  smile  was  no  longer  a  rarity. 
She  used  to  come  to  me  every  day,  and  stayed  to  dinner. 
After  dinner  we  three  used  to  sit  together  for  hours,  and 
whatever  the  subject  of  conversation  between  Helfreich 
and  myself,  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  only  occasionally  put 
in  a  word. 

I  well  remember  one  of  these  talks.  Helfreich,  without 
giving  up  his  cats,  had  begun  seriously  to  paint  studies. 
Once  he  confessed  that  he  was  working  so  hard  only 
because  he  had  thought  out  a  picture  which  he  intended 
to  paint,  "  perhaps  in  five,  perhaps  in  ten  years'  time." 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  213 

"  Why  so  far  ahead,  Senichka  ?"  I  asked,  with  an  in- 
voluntary smile  at  the  important  way  in  which  he  had 
announced  his  intention. 

"Because  it  is  a  serious  subject  —  a  matter  of  life, 
Andrei.  Do  you  think  that  only  tall  people  with  straight 
backs  and  chests  can  think  out  serious  subjects  ?  Oh, 
you  conceited  hop-poles  !  Believe  me,"  continued  he, 
with  an  air  of  assumed  importance,  "  that  between  these 
humps  of  mine  great  ideas  can  reside,  and  in  this  long 
box  (he  struck  himself  on  the  head)  great  ideas  are  born." 

"  This  great  idea — is  it  a  secret  ?"  inquired  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna. 

He  looked  at  us  both,  and  after  a  moment's  pause  said  : 

"  No,  it  is  not  a  secret.  I  will  tell  you.  I  have  had 
this  idea  for  a  long  time.  Listen.  Once  upon  a  time 
Vladimir  (Krasnoe  Solnishko)  became  angry  at  the  bold 
words  of  Ilia  Murometz.  He  ordered  him  to  be  seized, 
taken  away,  and  locked  up  in  a  deep  vault,  which  was  to 
be  covered  up  with  earth.  They  led  the  old  Cossack  away 
to  death.  But,  as  alwa3^s  happens,  the  Princess  Evprak- 
seiushka  at  that  moment  became  "  wise."  She  found  out 
a  way  to  Ilia,  and  used  to  send  him  bread  each  day,  and 
water,  and  wax  candles  by  the  light  of  which  to  read  the 
Gospel.     And  she  sent  him  the  Gospels." 

Senichka  stopped  and  thought,  and  was  silent  for  so 
long  that  at  length  I  said  : 

"  Well,  Simon  Ivanovich  ?" 

"  Well,  that's  all.  Of  course,  the  Prince  soon  wanted 
the  old  Cossack.  The  Tatars  came,  and  there  was  no 
one  to  save  Kieff.  Then  Vladimir  was  sorry,  bitterly 
regretted.  Then  Evprakseiushka  sent  people  straight- 
way to  the  deep  vaults,  and  led  out  Ilia  by  the  hand. 
Ilia  did  not  bear  malice,  sat  on  a  steed,  and  so  on, 
routed  the  Tatars — and  that's  all." 

"  But  where's  the  picture,  Simon  Ivanovich  ?" 

Simon  looked  at  me  with  an  expression  of  exaggerated 
astonishment,  and  threw  up  his  arms. 


214  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

**  Artist  !  Oh,  artist  !  Oh,  Lopatin,  Andrei  Lopatin  ■ 
There  are  thirty,  three  hundred,  three  thousand  pictures, 
if  you  want  them,  but  I  shall  choose  one  only,  and  shall 
paint  it.  I  shall  die,  but  I  shall  paint  it  first  !  Cannot 
you  see  him  sitting  in  the  vault  ?  Can  you  not  see  it  as 
if  real  ?  Listen  !  the  cave,  vault,  generally  a  burrow  of 
some  kind  like  the  Kieff  caves.  The  narrow  approaches 
and  the  small  niche  in  the  wall.  The  dust  and  mildew, 
frightening  and  fantastic  in  the  light  of  the  wax  candle. 
And  Ilia  sits  on  the  steps,  before  him  a  desk,  and  on  the 
desk  there  lies  an  old  sacred  book  with  thick,  warped, 
yellowing  leaves  of  parchment,  inscribed  with  letters  of 
black  and  red.  The  old  Cossack  is  sitting  in  a  shirt  only, 
and  is  reading  attentively,  turning  over  the  rebellious 
leaves  of  the  book  with  his  big,  uncouth  peasant's  hands, 
accustomed  to  the  campaign  and  lance,  to  the  sword  and 
to  the  cudgel.  These  hands  have  laboured  much,  and, 
from  the  hard  work  which  they  have  performed  all  his 
life,  they  are  tremulous,  and  with  difficulty  turn  over 
the  leaves  of  the  sacred  book.  .  .  .  Eh,  my  friend," 
suddenly  said  Helfreich  in  the  middle  of  all  this,  "  only 
one  calamity  :  there  were  no  such  things  as  spectacles  at 
that  time.  If  there  had  been,  Evprakseiushka  would 
undoubtedly  have  sent  him  spectacles — huge  round  ones 
with  silver  rims.  Perhaps  he  was  long-sighted  from  life 
on  the  steppe  ?     What  do  you  think  ?" 

We  both  laughed.  Helfreich  looked  at  us,  surprised, 
and  then,  as  if  understanding  why  we  laughed,  himself 
smiled.  But  the  solemn  spirit  of  his  narrative  again  took 
hold  of  him,  and  he  continued. 

"  I  will  not  begin  to  tell  you  what  his  eyes  were  like  ; 
that  will  be  hardest  of  all  to  paint.  But  I  can  see  it  all — 
his  eyes  and  lips.  And  so  he  sits  and  reads.  He  has 
opened  the  book  at  the  description  of  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount,  and  he  reads  how,  having  received  a  blow,  it  is 
necessary  to  turn  the  other  cheek.  He  reads  this,  and 
does  not  understand.     Ilia  has  worked  without  ceasing 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  215 

all  his  life.  He  has  destroyed  a  mighty  number  of 
Pechenegs  and  Tatars  and  brigands.  He  has  conquered 
many  knights  of  old.  He  has  passed  a  century  in  valorous 
deeds  and  in  artifices,  so  that  evil  should  not  befall 
Christianized  Russ,  and  he  believed  in  Christ,  and  prayed 
to  Him,  and  believed  that  he  was  fulfilling  Christ's 
teaching.  He  did  not  know  what  was  written  in  the 
book.  And  now  he  sits  and  ponders.  '  "  Whosoever  shall 
smite  thee  on  thy  right  cheek,  turn  to  him  the  other  also." 
How  can  this  be  ?  O  Lord  !  is  it  good  if  they  shall  strike 
me,  insult  a  woman,  or  touch  a  child,  or  if  the  pagans 
shall  come  and  commence  to  rob  and  kill  Thy  servants, 
O  Lord  ?  Not  to  touch  them  !  To  let  them  kill  and 
plunder  ?  No,  Lord,  I  cannot  obey  Thee.  I  will  get 
astride  a  steed,  lance  in  hand,  and  will  go  out  to  fight  in 
Thy  name,  because  I  do  not  understand  Thy  wisdom. 
Thou  hast  put  a  voice  into  my  soul,  and  I  listen  to  it,  and 
not  to  Thee  !  .  .  .'  And  his  hand  trembles,  and  the 
yellow  page  with  its  red  and  black  lettering  trembles  in  it. 
The  candle  burns  dimly  ;  above  it  a  thin  black  streak 
rising  from  the  wick  vanishes  into  the  darkness,  and  only 
Ilia  and  his  book — only  these  two  are  lighted  by  this 
light.  ..." 

Simon  Ivanovich  stopped  and  pondered,  having  thrown 
himself  back  into  his  chair  with  his  eyes  raised  to  the 
ceiling. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  after  a  long  silence,  "  it  is  a  good  picture, 
Senichka.  Only  it  is  easier  to  narrate  than  to  paint  in 
oils  on  a  canvas.     How  will  you  express  all  this  ?" 

*'  I  will,  without  a  doubt  ;  I  will  do  this — all  this," 
Senichka  cried  with  warmth.  "  Yes,  I  will  paint  it.  I 
will  put  this  note  of  interrogation.  Ilia  and  the  Gospel  ! 
What  is  there  common  between  them  ?  For  this  book 
there  is  no  greater  sin  than  murder,  and  Ilia  has  killed 
all  his  life,  and  journeys  on  his  war-steed  all  hung  around 
with  weapons  of  slaughter — not  murder,  but  execution, 
because  he  executes.     And  when  this  arsenal  is  insuffi- 


2i6  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

cient,  or  he  has  not  got  it  with  him,  he  puts  sand  in  his 
cap,  and  uses  that  as  a  weapon.  And  he  is  a  saint.  I 
saw  him  in  Kieff.  ...  He  hes  amongst  them  all,  and 
justly  so." 

"  That  is  all  right,  Senichka,  but  I  cannot  help  saying 
the  paints  will  not  express  all  this." 

"  Why  not  ?  Bosh  !  And  even  if  they  do  not,  what 
harm  ?  They  will  ask  the  question.  .  .  .  But  wait, 
wait  a  minute,"  broke  in  Senichka  excitedly,  seeing  I 
wanted  to  say  something.  "  You  will  say  that  the  ques- 
tion is  already  put  ?  Quite  true  !  But  that  is  little.  It 
is  necessary  to  put  it  every  day,  every  hour,  every  second. 
People  must  not  be  allowed  peace.  And  if  I  think  that  I 
shall  succeed  in  making  even  ten  people  think  of  this 
question,  I  must  paint  this  picture.  I  have  long  thought 
of  it,  but  all  these  have  prevented  me." 

And  he  leant  forward,  and,  bending  down,  picked  up 
the  ginger  cat,  which  was  sitting  on  the  carpet  near  him, 
and  had  seemingly  listened  attentively  to  his  speech,  and 
placed  it  on  his  knee. 

"  Would  you  not  surely  do  the  same  ?"  continued 
Senichka.  "  Your  picture,  surely,  is  it  not  the  same 
question  ?  Do  you  really  know  if  this  woman  did  right  ? 
You  will  make  people  think — that's  the  whole  point. 
And,  apart  from  the  sesthetic  feeling  which  every  picture 
arouses,  and  which  of  itself  is  not  worth  much — is  not 
this  the  idea  which  animates  our  work  ?" 

"  Simon  Ivanovich,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna  suddenly,  "  I  never  saw  you  like  this  before. 
I  always  knew  that  you  had  a  most  kind  heart,  but  ..." 

"  But  you  thought  that  I  was  a  fool  of  a  hunchback  ? 
Do  you  remember  you  called  me  that  once  ?" 

He  looked  at  her,  and,  perhaps  seeing  the  shadow  on  her 
face,  added  : 

"  Forgive  me  for  recalling  that.  Those  years  must  be 
wiped  out  of  memory.  All  will  go  well.  It  is  true, 
Andrei,  is  it  not  ?     All  will  go  well  ? 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  217 

I  nodded  my  head.  I  was  very  happy  then  :  I  saw 
that  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  was  little  by  little  becoming 
calmer,  and — who  knows  ? — perhaps  her  life  for  the  last 
three  years  will  become  for  her  nothing  more  than  a  dis- 
tant recollection,  not  of  years  lived  through,  but  only  a 
vague  and  distressing  dream,  after  which,  having  opened 
her  eyes  and  seeing  that  the  night  is  quiet  and  that  all  is 
as  usual  in  the  room,  she  rejoices  that  it  was  only  a  dream. 


XVII 

The  winter  passed.  The  sun  rose  higher  and  higher  in 
the  heavens,  and  with  ever-increasing  strength  warmed 
the  streets  and  roofs  of  St.  Petersburg.  Everywhere 
water  was  pouring  down  all  the  spouts  ;  bits  of  ice  with 
the  noise  of  thunder  came  jumping  out  of  them  on  to  the 
pavements,  or  into  the  buckets  put  to  catch  them  ; 
droshkies  appeared  rattling  along  the  roads,  now  bare  of 
snow  in  places,  with  a  familiar  but  strangely  new  sound 
to  the  ear. 

I  have  finished  my  picture.  A  few  more  sittings,  and 
it  will  be  possible  to  take  it  to  the  Academy  before  the 
Court  of  Exhibition  experts.  Helfreich  has  congratulated 
me  already  on  my  success.  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  is  de- 
lighted. Looking  at  the  picture  and  at  her  face,  I  often 
see  an  up  to  this  time  unfamiliar  expression  on  it  of  quiet 
satisfaction.  Sometimes  she  has  been  even  gay,  and  has 
joked — for  the  most  part  with  Senichka,  who  is  engrossed 
in  the  reading  of  numerous  books  which  he  says  he  must 
read  for  his  picture,  in  looking  at  albums,  at  all  sorts  of 
antiquities,  and  in  studying  the  Gospels.  His  cats  have 
gone.  Only  the  faithful  ginger  cat  has  stayed  on,  and 
even  he  lives  in  peace,  almost  undisturbed  by  his  master, 
and  uncalled  upon  to  act  as  a  model.  Since  our  conversa- 
tion about  Ilia  Murometz,  Simon  Ivanovich  has  only 
painted  one  cat  picture,  and,  having  sold  it  for  a  hundred 
and  fifty  roubles,  considers  himself  assured  of  money  for 


2i8  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

a  long  time — the  more  so  that  he,  to  my  great  astonish- 
ment, is  not  the  least  embarrassed  with  his  long  stay  in 
my  flat,  where  living  costs  him  nothing. 

We  three  spent  almost  all  our  spare  time  together.  Hel- 
freich  managed  to  get  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  an  enormous 
manuscript  containing  a  scheme  by  some  important  person 
— a  scheme  by  which  Russia  must  be  loaded  with  benefits 
in  a  very  short  time — and  she  has  copied  it  out  in  a 
dainty  large  hand.  As  this  benefiting  of  Russia  de- 
manded a  large  amount  of  thinking,  the  scheme  has  been 
amended  and  supplemented  without  end,  and,  it  seems, 
has  not  even  now  been  completed.  Somebody  is  prob- 
ably copying  it  now  after  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  ! 

At  any  rate,  she  had  a  little  money.  What  she  earned 
by  copying,  and  the  money  she  received  from  me  for  her 
sittings,  sufficed  her.  She  lived  in  the  same  little  room 
to  which  she  had  changed  when  she  hid  from  us.  It  was 
a  narrow,  low  room,  with  one  window  looking  out  on  to 
a  blank  wall.  A  bedstead,  chest  of  drawers,  two  chairs, 
and  a  card-table,  which  did  duty  as  a  writing  and  dining 
table,  made  up  its  furniture.  When  we  used  to  go  and 
see  her,  Senichka  would  go  to  the  kitchen  and  beg  a 
stool  for  himself  from  the  landlady.  But  we  seldom 
visited  her.  The  room,  which  nothing  could  induce 
Nadejda  Nicolaievna  to  leave,  was  uninviting  and  gloomy, 
and  we  seldom  went  there.  For  the  most  part,  we  for- 
gathered in  my  rooms,  which  were  spacious  and  light. 

I  never  once  spoke  to  her  of  what  was  passing  in  my 
mind.  I  was  calm  and  happy  in  the  present.  I  under- 
stood that  any  incautious  reference  to  her,  perhaps  still 
open,  spiritual  wounds  would  reflect  painfully  on  her.  I 
might  lose  her  for  ever  if  I  insisted  now  in  carrying  out 
my  secret  idea,  wish,  and  hope.  Perhaps  I  could  not 
have  behaved  so  quietly  and  restrained  myself  so  long 
had  not  this  hope  been  so  strong.  I  firmly  believed  that 
after  another  six  months,  a  year,  or  even  two  (I  was  not 
afraid  of  time),  when  she  had  become  calm  and  restored 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  219 

to  health,  she  would  see  around  her  a  firm  support  on 
which  she  could  lean  and  would  become  mine  for  life.  I 
even  did  not  hope,  I  actually  knew  she  would  be  my  wife. 

I  do  not  know  if  she  used  to  see  Bezsonow.  .  .  .  He 
came  occasionally  to  me,  upsetting  our  tranquillity  and 
introducing  an  awkwardness  into  our  conversation. 
Apparently  he  was  calm,  and  looked  upon  Nadejda  Nico- 
laievna  with  indifference.  She  did  not  talk  to  him, 
although  she  answered  his  questions  and  listened  to  his 
long  dissertations  on  the  most  varied  subjects.  He  was 
very  well  read  and  spoke  well.  Somehow  it  seemed  to  me 
that  he  was  so  talkative  and  instructive  in  order  to  hide 
from  us  something  concealed  behind  the  flow  of  speech 
which  would  not  give  him  peace.  Subsequently  I  knew 
that  this  was  so,  and  that  under  his  outward  calm  he  was 
hiding  the  mortal  ulcer  which  was  killing  him,  just  as 
that  French  priest  of  reputed  invulnerability  used  to  wear 
a  red  cloak  in  battles,  so  that  the  blood  which  used  to 
pour  from  his  wounds  should  not  be  seen.  But  when  I 
found  this  out  it  was  already  too  late. 

For  some  reason  he  again  went  to  live  with  the  Captain. 
I  went  there  once.  His  new  room,  like  his  old  one,  was 
all  littered  with  books,  newspapers,  and  papers,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  that  they  all  lay  in  great  disorder  and 
covered  with  dust,  as  if  it  was  long  since  anyone  had 
put  a  finger  to  work.  I  felt  an  intruder,  and  decided  not 
to  go  any  more  to  him.  I  asked  him,  by  the  way,  whether 
he  knew  anything  of  the  Captain,  and  was  it  true  that  he 
was  a  "  hero  of  Miekoff  and  Opatoff." 

"  He  is  inventing,"  said  Bezsonow.  "  He  is  really  half 
a  Pole.  He  became  Orthodox  long  ago.  I  think  he 
simply  wishes  to  impress  young  fellows  when  he  discloses 
this  sham  secret." 

I  came  away  from  Bezsonow.  Soon  afterwards  two 
incidents  opened  my  eyes  to  his  behaviour. 

First,  Sonia  wrote  me  a  letter  describing  the  plot  be- 
tween Bezsonow  and  his  mother.     The  old  lady  used  some- 


220  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

times  to  go  to  the  Institute  on  visiting  days,  remembering 
the  interest  which  Sonia's  mother  had  taken  in  her  and  her 
son.  According  to  my  cousin,  on  this  occasion  she  arrived 
in  an  agitated  and  mysterious  state,  and,  after  a  few 
preHminary  remarks,  disclosed  the  reason  of  her  visit. 
Serge  VassiHvich  had  written  to  her  all  details  of  what 
was  happening.  He  could  not  find  words  with  which 
to  paint  the  position  of  affairs  as  black  as  he  wished.  He 
had  not  asked  his  mother  to  inform  Sonia  of  the  contents 
of  the  letter,  but  the  old  woman  herself,  out  of  a  feeling  of 
gratitude,  had  decided  to  come  and  tell  her  everything 
in  order  to  warn  her  so  that  she  might  act  whilst  it  was 
yet  possible  to  save  me.  The  old  lady  was  very  surprised 
when  she  found  out  my  cousin  knew  all.  She  was  much 
upset.  She,  as  an  old  woman,  was  ashamed  to  talk  of 
such  things  to  a  young  girl  still  at  an  Institute,  but 
what  was  to  be  done  ?  The  unhappy  Andrusha  must  be 
saved  at  all  costs.  If  she  were  Sonia,  she  would  leave 
the  Institute  at  once  and  go  to  St.  Petersburg  in  order 
to  open  my  eyes. 

"  Serge  VassiHvich,"  wrote  Sonia,  "  is  playing  some 
strange  part  in  all  this  story.  I  do  not  believe  he  wrote 
all  this  to  his  mother  without  knowing  that  she  would 
infallibly  tell  me  all ;  and,  I  will  go  further,  he  hoped  she 
would  tell  me. 

"  I  will  come  to  St.  Petersburg,  but  only  after  the  ex- 
aminations. If  you  are  agreeable,  we  will  pass  the 
summer  somewhere  together  in  a  dacha,  and  I  will  do  a 
little  work,  so  that  it  will  not  be  too  hard  for  me  when  I 
begin  my  studies." 

This  letter  upset  me,  but  when  I  received  a  second  long 
anonymous  epistle,  it  was  more  than  I  could  stand. 

In  high-fiown,  florid  sentences,  the  anonymous  author 
warned  me  against  the  doleful  fate  of  all  young  people 
who  give  themselves  up  blindly  to  their  passions,  not 
discriminating  between  the  qualities  and  deficiencies  of 
the  being  with  whom  they  are  intending  to  enter  into 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  221 

alliance — "  the  fetters  of  which  are  light  and  unnoticeable 
at  the  commencement,  but  which  subsequently  become 
converted  into  a  heavy  chain  resembling  that  which  un- 
fortunate galley-slaves  drag."  This  was  the  style  in 
which  the  unknown  author  of  the  latter  expressed  him- 
self. "  Believe  the  kindly  meant  word  of  an  older  and 
more  experienced  man,  Mr.  Lopatin.''  Then  followed  a 
whole  indictment  against  "  Nadejda,"  whose  soul  was 
characterized  as  "  booty  for  the  stove  "  (an  expression 
from  which  I  conclusively  recognized  the  hand  of  the 
Captain).  She  was  accused  of  a  long  life  of  vice  which 
she  could  have  left  had  she  chosen,  "  because  she  has 
relatives,  albeit  very  distant  ones,  who — I  am  convinced 
of  this — would  have  rescued  her  from  her  fallen  social 
position  ;  but  her  natural  bent  is  vicious  ;  she  preferred 
to  wallow  in  the  mire  from  which  you,  in  vain  hope  to 
save  her,  and  into  which,  without  doubt,  you  will  yourself 
fall,  and  lose  your  life  and  wonderful  talent."  She  was 
accused  of  the  murder  of  a  man,  "  also  very  correct,  not 
distinguished  by  talents  such  as  you  possess,  but  a  first- 
rate  man,  receiving  fifty  roubles  a  month  salary,  and 
having  a  prospective  increase  of  salary  which  would  have 
been  sufficient  for  both  to  live  on,  because  what  could 
such  a  creature  as  this  contemptible  being  rely  on  ? 
However,  her  nature  was  such  that  she  preferred  to  reject 
the  marriage  offers  of  this  young  man,  Mr.  Nikitin,  so 
as  to  be  free  to  continue  her  vile  life." 

The  letter  was  a  very  long  one,  and  before  I  came  to  its 
end  I  had  thrown  it  into  the  stove.  That  Bezsonow  had 
had  a  share  in  this  appeared  to  me  undoubted.  Why 
otherwise  should  the  Captain  bother  about  my  soul's  sal- 
vation ?  All  the  blood  rushed  to  my  head,  and  my  first 
impulse  was  to  rush  to  Bezsonow.  I  do  not  know  what 
I  should  have  done  to  him.  I  did  not  bother  about  the 
Captain.  This  renegade  hiding  his  treason  had  been 
talked  over,  bought  over  with  drink  perhaps,  or  fright- 
ened into  it  by  some  means.     I  seized  my  hat,  and  was 


222  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

already  at  the  door,  when  I  recovered  myself.  It  would 
be  better  to  calm  down,  and  then  decide  upon  what  to  do. 
I  decided  in  this  sense,  and,  whilst  waiting  for  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna,  tried  to  paint  in  some  of  the  accessories  of 
the  picture,  thinking  by  this  means  to  calm  myself  down 
for  work,  but  my  brush  jumped  about  the  canvas,  and 
my  eyes  did  not  see  the  paints.  I  dressed  so  as  to  go  out 
and  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  As  I  opened  the  door,  I 
found  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  standing  in  front  of  me,  pale, 
breathless,  with  a  terrified  expression  in  her  wide-opened 
eyes. 

XVIII 

From  Bezsonow's  Diary. — Heartsick  and  longing  !  This 
sickness  of  heart  is  persecuting  me,  no  matter  where  I  am 
or  what  I  may  do  in  order  to  forget,  to  appease  it  by  some 
means  or  other.  My  eyes  have  at  last  opened.  A  month 
has  gone  by,  and  in  this  month  all  has  been  settled.  What 
has  become  of  my  boasted  philosophic  tranquillity  ? 
Where  are  my  sleepless  nights  passed  in  work  ?  I,  the 
same  I  who  prided  myself  on  possessing  character  in 
our  characterless  time,  have  been  crushed  and  destroyed 
by  the  storm  which  has  rushed  on  me.  .  .  .  What 
storm  ?  Is  it  really  a  storm  ?  I  despise  myself.  I 
despise  myself  for  my  former  pride,  which  did  not  prevent 
me  from  giving  way  to  an  empty  passion.  I  despise 
myself  for  having  allowed  this  devil  in  the  shape  of  a 
woman  to  take  possession  of  my  soul.  Yes,  if  I  believed 
in  the  supernatural,  I  could  in  no  other  way  explain  what 
has  happened. 

I  have  read  over  these  lines.  .  .  .  What  humihating, 
pitiful  wails  !  Oh,  where  art  thou,  my  pride  ?  Where  is 
that  strength  of  will  which  made  it  possible  for  me  to 
break  myself,  and  live,  not  as  life  willed,  but  as  I  wished 
to  live  ?  I  have  lowered  myself  to  petty  intrigue.  I 
wrote  to  my  mother,  and  she,  without  doubt,  told  all  I 
wanted  told  to  his  cousin,  and  nothing  has  come  of  it ; 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  223 

impatiently,  I  made  an  old  fool  write  an  illiterate  letter 
to  Lopatin — and  I  know  nothing  will  come  of  this.  He 
will  throw  the  letter  into  the  fire,  or,  still  worse,  will  show 
it  to  her,  his  mistress,  and  they  will  read  it  together, 
make  fun  of  the  illiterate  effusions  of  the  Captain's  soul, 
and  will  jeer  at  me  because  they  will  understand  that  no 
one  but  I  could  have  urged  the  Captain  to  commit  this 
idiotic  act. 

His  mistress  ?  Is  she  ?  The  word  was  torn  from  me, 
but  I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  true.  And  if  untrue  ? 
Is  there  still  any  hope  for  me  ?  What  makes  me  think 
that  he  has  fallen  in  love  with  her,  excepting  vague  sus- 
picion roused  by  mad  jealousy  ? 

Three  years  ago  everything  was  possible  and  easy.  I 
lied  in  this  very  diary  when  I  wrote  that  I  gave  her  up 
because  I  saw  it  was  impossible  to  save  her.  Or,  if  I  did 
not  lie,  I  deceived  myself.  It  would  have  been  easy  to 
save  her.  It  only  meant  bending  down  to  pick  her  up, 
but  I  would  not  stoop.  I  understand  this  only  now,  when 
my  heart  is  aching  with  love  for  her.  Love  !  No,  it  is  not 
love  ;  it  is  more  :  it  is  a  raging  passion,  a  fire  which  is 
consuming  me.     How  shall  I  extinguish  it  ? 

I  will  go  to  her.  I  will  collect  all  my  forces  and  speak 
calmly.  Let  her  choose  between  him  and  me.  I  will 
only  speak  the  truth.  I  will  tell  her  that  it  is  impossible 
to  rely  on  this  impressionable  fellow, who  to-day  is  thinking 
of  her,  and  to-morrow  will  be  engrossed  with  something 
else  and  will  forget  her.  I  will  go  !  One  way  or  the 
other  this  must  come  to  an  end.  I  am  too  worn  out,  and 
cannot.  ... 

The  same  day. 

I  have  been  to  her.     I  am  going  to  him  directly. 

These  are  the  last  lines  which  will  be  written  in  this 
diary.  Nothing  can  hold  me  back.  I  have  no  control 
over  myself.  .  .  . 


22  4  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

XIX 

Lopatin's  Notes. — Why  drag  it  out  any  longer  ?  Is  it 
not  better  to  end  my  reminiscences  in  these  hnes  ? 

No,  I  will  write  them  to  the  end.  It  is  all  the  same ; 
if  I  throw  down  my  pen  and  this  diary,  that  awful  day 
will  be  lived  by  me  a  thousand  times.  For  the  thousandth 
time  I  am  experiencing  the  horror  and  torment  of  con- 
science and  the  agony  of  loss  ;  for  the  thousandth  time  the 
scene  of  which  I  am  going  to  write  now  will  pass  before 
my  eyes  in  all  its  details,  and  each  detail  will  lie  on  my  heart 
with  fresh,  awful  emphasis.     I  will  go  on  to  the  very  end. 

I  led  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  into  the  room.  She  could 
scarcely  stand,  and  was  trembling  as  if  in  a  fever.  She 
gazed  at  me  all  the  time  with  the  same  frightened  glance, 
and  for  the  first  minute  could  not  utter  a  word.  I  sat 
her  down  and  gave  her  some  water. 

**  Andrei  Nicolaievich,  beware  !  Lock  the  door  !  .  .  . 
Let  no  one  come  in.     He  will  be  here  in  a  minute." 

"  Who  ?     Bezsonow  ?" 

*'  Lock  the  doors  !"  she  gasped. 

Rage  possessed  me.  It  was  not  sufficient  to  write 
anonymous  letters  ;  he  had  resorted  to  violence. 

"  What  has  he  done  to  you  ?  Where  have  you  seen 
him  ?  Calm  yourself.  Drink  some  more  water,  and  tell 
me.     Where  did  you  see  him  ?" 

*'  He  has  been  to  see  me." 

"  For  the  first  time  ?" 

"  No,  not  for  the  first  time.  He  has  been  twice  before. 
I  did  not  want  to  tell  you,  so  as  not  to  upset  you.  I 
begged  him  to  stop  coming  to  me.  I  told  him  it  dis- 
tressed me  to  see  him.  He  said  nothing,  and  went,  and 
for  three  weeks  did  not  come  near  me.  To-day  he  came 
early,  and  waited  until  I  had  dressed.  ..." 

She  stopped.     It  was  difficult  for  her  to  continue. 

''Well,  and  further?" 

"  I  have  never  seen  him  before  like  he  was.     He  began 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  225 

by  speaking  quietly.  He  spoke  of  you.  He  said  nothing 
bad  about  you,  only  that  you  were  impressionable  and 
fickle,  and  that  I  could  not  rely  on  you.  He  said  straight 
out  that  you  would  throw  me  aside  because  you  would 
tire  of  me.  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  and  began  to  cry.  Oh,  never  was  I 
possessed  with  such  love  and  pity  for  her.  I  took  her 
cold  hands  and  kissed  them.  I  was  madly  happy. 
Words  flowed  without  restraint  from  my  lips.  I  told  her 
I  would  love  her  for  life,  that  she  must  be  my  wife,  and 
that  she  would  see  and  know  that  Bezsonow  was  wi*ong. 
I  spoke  a  thousand  senseless  words — words  of  delirious 
happiness  for  the  most  part,  having  no  outward  sense — ■ 
but  she  understood  them.  I  saw  her  dear  face,  radiant 
with  happiness,  resting  close  to  my  heart.  It  was  an 
entirely  new,  somewhat  strange  face — not  the  face  with 
a  secret  suffering  writ  on  its  features  that  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  see. 

She  laughed  and  cried,  and  kissed  my  hands,  and  pressed 
towards  me.  And  at  that  moment  the  world  held  only 
us  two.  She  spoke  of  her  good  fortune,  and  how  she  had 
loved  me  from  the  very  first  meeting,  and  had  run  away 
from  me  frightened  at  this  love.  She  declared  she  was 
not  worthy  of  me,  that  it  terrified  her  that  I  should  link 
my  fate  with  hers,  and  she  again  embraced  me,  and  again 
shed  tears  of  joy  and  happiness.  Finally  she  sobered 
down. 

"  But  Bezsonow,"  she  said  suddenly. 

**  Let  Bezsonow  come,"  I  replied.  "  What  has  Bezso- 
now got  to  do  with  us  ?" 

"  Wait  ;  I  will  finish  what  I  began  to  tell  you  of  him. 
Yes,  he  spoke  of  you,  then  of  himself.  He  said  he  was 
a  far  more  hopeful  support  than  you.  He  reminded  me 
that  three  years  ago  I  loved  him  and  would  have  gone 
with  him,  and  when  I  told  him  he  was  deceiving  himself 
his  whole  pride  blazed  out,  and  he  so  lost  control  of  him- 
self  that    he   rushed    at    me.  .  .  .     Wait,    wait,"    said 

15 


226  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

Nadejda  Nicolaievna,  seizing  me  by  the  hand  as  I  jumped 
to  my  feet ;  ''  he  did  not  touch  me.  ...  I  am  sorry  for 
him,  Andrei  Nicolaievich  ...  he  threw  himself  at  my 
feet,  this  proud  man.     If  only  you  had  seen  him  !" 

"  What  did  you  say  to  him  ?" 

'*  What  was  there  to  say  ?  I  was  silent.  I  could  only 
tell  him  that  I  did  not  love  him,  and  when  he  asked  me 
if  it  was  because  I  loved  you,  I  told  him  the  truth.  .  .  . 
Then  something  strange  came  over  him,  which  I  could  not 
understand.  He  rushed  at  me,  clasped  me  to  himself, 
and  whispered  "  Good-bye,  good-bye,"  and  went  to  the 
door.  I  have  never  seen  such  an  awful  face.  I  fell  into 
a  chair.  At  the  door  he  turned,  and,  smiling  strangely, 
said,  *  But  I  shall  see  you  with  him,*  and  his  face  was  so 
awful.  .  .  ." 

Suddenly  she  stopped  speaking  and  turned  deadly  pale, 
fixing  her  eyes  on  the  door  of  the  studio.  I  turned 
round.     In  the  doorway  stood  Bezsonow. 

"  You  did  not  expect  me  ?"  he  said  stammeringly.  *'  I 
did  not  disturb  you,  and  came  in  by  the  back  entrance." 

I  jumped  to  my  feet  and  faced  him.  We  stood  for 
some  time  like  this,  measuring  each  other  with  our  eyes. 
He  was  indeed  a  terrifying  spectacle.  He  was  white,  his 
bloodshot  eyes,  full  of  raging  hate,  were  fixed  on  me. 
He  said  nothing,  but  his  thin  lips  trembled,  and  seemed 
to  be  whispering  something.  Suddenly  a  wave  of  pity 
for  him  swept  over  me. 

"  Serge  Vassilivich,  why  did  you  come  ?  If  you  want 
to  talk  to  me,  come  along  and  calm  j^ourself." 

"  I  am  quite  calm,  Lopatin.  ...  I  am  ill,  but  calm. 
I  have  already  decided,  and  I  have  nothing  to  excite  me." 

''  Why  have  you  come  ?" 

**  To  say  a  few  words  to  you.  You  imagine  you  will 
be  happy  with  her  ?"  With  a  wave  of  his  hand,  he 
pointed  to  Nadejda  Nicolaievna.  "  You  will  not  be 
happy  !     I  will  not  allow  it." 

'*  Leave  this  place,"  said  I,  making  tremendous  efforts 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  227 

to  speak  quietly.  "  Go  away — go  and  rest.  You  your- 
self say  you  are  unwell." 

'*  That's  my  business.  Listen  to  what  I  am  going  to 
tell  you.  I  have  made  a  mistake.  ...  I  am  to  blame. 
I  love  her.     Give  her  to  me." 

"  He  has  gone  out  of  his  mind,"  flashed  through  my 
mind. 

"  I  cannot  live  without  her,"  he  continued  in  a  dull, 
hoarse  voice.     "  I  will  not  leave  you  until  you  say  *  Yes.'  " 

"  Serge  Vassilivich  !" 

"  And  you  will  say  *  Yes,'  or  .  .  ." 

I  took  him  by  the  shoulders  and  turned  him  towards 
the  door.  He  went  quietly,  but  when  we  reached  the 
door,  instead  of  taking  hold  of  the  handle,  he  turned  the 
key  in  the  lock,  then,  with  a  sudden  violent  movement, 
threw  me  off  and  stood  in  a  threatening  pose.  Nadejda 
Nicolaievna  gave  a  shriek. 

I  saw  him  transfer  the  key  from  his  right  hand  into  his 
left,  and  put  his  right  hand  into  his  pocket.  When  he 
drew  it  out,  something  glistened  in  it  which  I  had  not 
time  to  name.  But  its  sight  terrified  me.  Not  knowing 
what  I  was  doing,  I  seized  the  lance  standing  in  the  corner, 
and  when  he  pointed  the  revolver  at  Nadejda  Nicolaievna, 
I  rushed  at  him  with  a  wild  yell.  Everything  reverber- 
ated with  a  terrific  report.  .  .  . 

Then  the  slaughter  began. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  lay  unconscious.  When  I 
came  to  I  remembered  nothing,  only  that  I  was  lying 
on  the  floor,  that  I  could  see  the  ceiling  through  a  strange 
dove-coloured  mist,  that  I  felt  there  was  something  in 
my  chest  preventing  me  from  moving  or  speaking — all 
this  did  not  astonish  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  all 
a  necessary  part  of  some  matter  which  had  to  be  done, 
but  what  I  could  not  in  any  way  remember. 

The  picture  !  Yes.  Charlotte  Corday  and  IHa  Muro- 
metz.  .  .  .    He  is  sitting  and  reading,  and  she  is  turning 


228  NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA 

the  leaves  for  him  and  laughing  wildly.  .  .  .  What  non- 
sense !  .  .  .  It  is  not  that ;  that  is  not  the  question  about 
which  Helfreich  is  speaking. 

I  make  a  movement,  and  feel  great  pain.  Of  course,  that 
is  as  it  should  be — otherwise  is  impossible. 

Absolute  quiet.  A  fly  is  buzzing  in  the  air,  and  then 
bumps  itself  against  the  window-pane.  The  double 
windows  have  not  yet  been  taken  out,  but  through  them 
comes  the  rattle  of  the  droshkies  passing  along  the  street. 
The  faint  smoke  clears  away  before  my  eyes — a  strange 
bluish  smoke — and  I  see  clearly  on  the  ceiling  a  coarsely 
modelled  rosette  round  the  hook  for  a  candelabra.  I 
think  that  this  is  a  very  strange  ornament.  I  have  never 
noticed  it  before.  And  somebody  is  touching  my  arm. 
I  turn  my  head  and  see  somebody's  hand — a  little  soft 
white  hand  lying  on  the  floor.  I  cannot  get  at  it,  and  I 
am  dreadfully  sorry,  because  this  is  Nadia's  hand,  whom 
I  love  more  than  anybody  or  anything  else  in  the 
world.  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  a  bright  gleam  of  consciousness  illu- 
minates me,  and  in  a  flash  I  remember  all  that  has  hap- 
pened. ...     He  has  killed  her. 

Impossible  !  Impossible  !  She  is  alive.  She  is  only 
wounded.  "  Help  !  help  !"  I  cry,  but  no  sound  is  heard. 
Only  a  kind  of  gurgling  in  my  chest  which  chokes  me, 
and  a  rosy  froth  collects  on  my  lips.  He  has  killed  me 
also. 

Collecting  my  strength,  I  raised  myself  and  looked  at  her 
face.  Her  eyes  were  closed  and  she  was  motionless.  I 
felt  how  the  very  hair  on  my  head  moved.  I  wanted  to 
become  unconscious.  I  fell  on  her  breast,  and  com- 
menced to  smother  with  kisses  the  face  which  but  half 
an  hour  ago  had  been  full  of  life  and  happiness,  and  had 
so  confidingly  snuggled  to  my  heart.  Now  it  was  still 
and  severe.  The  blood  had  already  ceased  to  trickle  from 
a  little  wound  over  one  eye.    She  was  dead. 


NADEJDA  NICOLAIEVNA  229 

When  they  burst  open  the  door  and  Simon  Ivanovich 
rushed  towards  me,  I  felt  that  I  was  at  my  last  gasp. 
They  lifted  me  up  and  placed  me  on  the  sofa.  I 
saw  how  they  took  hold  of  her  and  carried  her  out.  I 
wanted  to  cry  out,  to  beg,  implore  them  not  to  do  it,  but 
to  leave  her  alongside  me.  But  I  could  not  cry  out.  I 
only  noiselessly  whispered  whilst  the  doctor  examined  my 
chest,  through  which  a  bullet  had  passed. 

They  took  him  out.  He  lay  with  a  severe  and  terrible 
face  covered  in  blood,  which  had  poured  like  a  wave  from 
a  mortal  wound  on  his  head. 

I  am  finishing  now.     What  is  there  to  add  ? 

Sonia  arrived  almost  immediately,  summoned  by  a 
telegram  from  Simon  Ivanovich.  They  have  been  treat- 
ing me  for  a  long  time,  and  persistently  continue  to  treat 
me.  Sonia  and  Helfreich  are  convinced  that  I  shall  live. 
They  want  to  take  me  abroad,  and  rely  on  this  journey  as 
on  a  mountain  of  stone. 

But  I  feel  I  have  only  a  few  days  more.  My  wound 
has  closed,  but  m}/  chest  is  being  racked  by  another 
disease.  I  know  I  have  consumption.  And,  thirdly,  a 
still  more  terrible  disease  is  helping  it.  I  cannot  for  one 
minute  forget  Nadejda  Nicolaievna  and  Bezsonow.  The 
appalling  details  of  that  last  day  stand  eternally  before 
my  mental  gaze,  and  a  voice  without  ceasing  whispers 
into  my  ear  that  I  have  killed  a  man. 

They  did  not  try  me.  The  case  was  quashed.  It  was 
recognized  that  I  killed  in  self-defence. 

But  for  the  human  conscience  there  are  no  written 
laws,  no  doctrine  of  irresponsibility,  and  I  am  suffering 
punishment  for  my  crime.  I  shall  not  suffer  it  long. 
Soon  the  All-Merciful  will  forgive  me,  and  we  three  will 
meet  where  our  passions  and  sufferings  will  seem  insignifi- 
cant in  the  light  of  everlasting  love. 


XII 
THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM 


*'  In  the  name  of  His  Imperial  Majesty  the  Lord  Emperor 
Peter  the  First,  I  order  a  revision  of  this  Asylum  !" 

These  words  were  uttered  in  a  loud,  strident,  resounding 
voice.  The  clerk  who  had  registered  the  patient  in  a 
large  dilapidated  book  lying  on  an  ink-bespattered  table 
could  not  restrain  a  smile.  But  the  two  young  men  who 
had  escorted  the  patient  did  not  smile.  They  could  scarcely 
keep  on  their  feet  after  forty-eight  hours  without  sleep, 
passed  alone  with  the  lunatic  whom  they  had  just  brought 
along  by  train.  At  the  station  immediately  preceding  their 
destination  the  attack  had  increased  in  its  intensity,  and 
they  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  strait-jacket  from 
somewhere,  which,  with  the  assistance  of  the  train-con- 
ductors and  a  gendarme,  they  had  placed  on  the  patient, 
and  had  brought  him  to  the  town,  and  finally  to  the 
Asylum  in  this  dress. 

He  was  dreadful  to  look  at.  Over  his  body  and  above 
his  grey  suit,  which  had  been  torn  into  rags  during  his 
paroxysms,  was  stretched  a  jacket  of  coarse  canvas 
opened  in  front ;  its  sleeves,  which  were  fastened  behind, 
forced  his  arms  crosswise  against  his  chest.  His  blood- 
shot eyes  (he  had  not  slept  for  ten  days)  blazed  with  a 
fixed  and  intense  glare.  His  lower  lip  was  twitching  with 
a  nervous  tremor,  whilst  his  tangled,  curly  hair  fell  mane- 
like over  his  forehead.     With  rapid,  agitated  steps,  he 

230 


THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM  33I 

paced  from  corner  to  corner  of  the  office,  gazing  inquisi- 
tively at  the  old  shelves  laden  with  documents,  and  the 
chairs  covered  with  a  kind  of  oilcloth.  Occasionally  he 
glanced  at  his  recent  fellow-travellers. 

*'  Take  him  to  the  ward.     To  the  right." 

"  I  know — I  know  ;  I  was  here  with  you  last  year.  We 
went  over  the  Asylum.  I  know  all  about  it,  and  it  will 
be  difficult  to  deceive  me,"  said  the  patient. 

He  turned  towards  the  door.  The  keeper  opened  it 
before  him,  and,  with  the  same  rapid  gait,  holding  his 
head  well  up,  he  left  the  office,  and,  almost  running,  went 
to  the  right,  to  the  ward  for  mental  patients.  Those  who 
were  escorting  him  could  scarcely  keep  up  with  him. 

"  Ring  !  I  cannot.  You  have  tied  my  arms."  The 
porter  opened  the  door,  and  they  entered  the  Asylum. 

It  was  a  large  stone  building,  an  old  Government  struc- 
ture. Two  large  halls — one  the  dining-hall,  the  other  a 
general  room  for  quiet  patients  ;  a  wide  corridor  with  a 
glass  door  leading  into  a  flower-garden,  and  some  twenty 
separate  rooms  where  the  patients  lived  occupied  the 
lower  story.  Here,  also,  were  two  dark  rooms — one  lined 
with  mattresses,  the  other  with  boards — in  which  violent 
patients  were  placed ;  and  an  enormous,  gloomy,  vaulted 
room,  which  was  the  bath-room. 

The  upper  story  was  occupied  by  women,  whence  there 
came  a  confused  din,  interspersed  with  yells  and  howling. 
The  Asylum  had  been  built  for  eighty  patients,  but  as  it 
was  the  only  one  available  for  some  distance  around  there 
were  nearly  three  hundred  accommodated  within  its  walls. 
Each  small  cubicle  held  four  or  five  beds.  In  winter-time, 
when  the  patients  were  not  allowed  into  the  garden  and 
all  the  iron-barred  windows  were  tightly  closed,  the 
building  became  unendurably  stifling. 

They  led  the  new  patient  into  the  room  in  which  were 
the  baths.  Even  on  a  sane  person  this  room  was  calcu- 
lated to  produce  a  feeling  of  depression,  and  on  a  dis- 
torted, excited  imagination  the  impression  would  be  so 


232  THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM 

much  the  greater.  It  was  a  large  vaulted  room  with  a 
greasy  stone  floor,  and  lighted  by  one  window  in  a  corner. 
The  walls  and  arches  were  painted  a  dark  red.  Two 
stone  baths,  like  two  oval-shaped  holes,  and  full  of  water, 
were  let  into,  and  on  a  level  with,  the  floor,  which  had 
become  almost  black  from  the  accumulated  dirt  of  ages. 
A  huge  copper  stove  with  a  cylindrical  boiler  for  heating 
the  water,  and  a  whole  system  of  copper  tubes  and  taps, 
filled  the  corner  opposite  the  window.  Everything  bore 
an  unusually  gloomy  and,  for  a  disordered  mind,  fantastic 
character,  which  impression  was  further  heightened  by 
the  forbidding  physiognomy  of  the  stout,  taciturn  warder 
in  charge  of  the  baths. 

When  they  led  the  patient  into  this  terrifying  room 
in  order  to  give  him  a  bath,  and,  in  accordance  with  the 
curative  method  of  the  principal  medical  officer  of  the 
Asylum,  to  place  a  large  blister  on  the  nape  of  his  neck, 
he  became  terrified.  Fantastic  ideas,  each  one  more 
monstrous  than  the  other,  came  crowding  into  his  head. 
What  was  this  ?  An  inquisition  ?  A  place  for  secret 
executions  where  his  enemies  had  decided  to  put  an  end 
to  him  ?  Perhaps  even  Hell  itself  ?  Eventually  he 
became  possessed  of  the  idea  that  this  was  to  be  some 
kind  of  trial.  They  undressed  him,  in  spite  of  his  frantic 
resistance.  With  a  strength  rendered  twofold  by  his 
affliction,  he  easily  wrenched  himself  free  from  several 
warders,  hurling  them  to  the  ground  ;  but  eventually 
four  of  them  threw  him  down,  and,  having  seized  him  by 
his  arms  and  legs,  lowered  him  into  the  warm  water.  It 
seemed  to  him  to  be  boiling,  and  into  his  disordered  brain 
flashed  disjointed  fragmentary  thoughts  about  trial  by 
boiling  water  and  red-hot  iron.  Choking  with  the  water, 
convulsively  struggling  with  his  arms  and  legs,  by  which 
the  warders  were  firmly  holding  him,  he  screamed  out 
disjointed  sentences,  surpassing  in  reality  any  possible 
description.  Supplications  alternated  with  curses.  As 
long  as  he  possessed  the  strength  to  do  so,  he  continued 


THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM  233 

to  cry  out  in  this  fashion  ;  then,  becoming  quiet,  and 
with  scalding  tears,  and  having  no  connection  with  any- 
thing he  had  previously  said,  he  murmured  :  "  Holy  and 
greatest  of  all  martyrs — St.  George  ! — into  thy  hands  I 
surrender  my  body.     But  my  spirit  ! — no,  never  !" 

The  warders  continued  to  hold  him,  although  he  had 
become  quiet.  The  warm  bath  and  the  bag  of  ice  placed 
on  his  head  were  having  their  effect.  But  when  they  took 
him,  almost  unconscious,  out  of  the  water  and  laid  him 
on  a  bench  in  order  to  apply  a  blister,  the  balance  of  his 
strength  and  the  fantastic  ideas  again  returned. 

"  Why  ?  Why  ?"  he  shouted.  "  I  never  wished  any- 
one harm  !  Why  kill  me  ?  0-0-0-0  Lord  !  Oh,  you 
have  already  tormented  me.  I  implore  you  !  Spare 
me  !" 

The  burning  hot  application  to  the  back  of  his  neck 
made  him  struggle  desperately.  The  attendants,  unable 
to  cope  with  him,  did  not  know  what  to  do.  *'  You  can 
do  nothing,"  said  the  soldier  who  had  performed  the 
operation  ;  "  we  must  rub." 

These  simple  words  sent  the  patient  into  convulsions 
of  fear :  "  Rub  !  Rub  what  ?  Rub  whom  ?  Me  !"  he 
reflected,  and  in  mortal  terror  he  closed  his  eyes.  The 
soldier,  taking  the  two  ends  of  a  coarse  towel  and  pressing 
heavily,  quickly  drew  it  across  the  nape  of  the  patient's 
neck,  tearing  from  it  both  the  blister  and  the  outer  layer 
of  skin,  and  leaving  an  open  red  sore.  The  painfulness 
of  this  operation,  almost  unendurable  even  for  a  quiet 
and  sane  person,  seemed  to  the  patient  the  end  of  all 
things.  He  made  a  desperate  effort  with  his  whole  body, 
wrenched  himself  free  of  the  warders,  and  his  naked  body 
slid  along  the  stone  slabs.  He  thought  they  had  cut  off 
his  head.  He  wished  to  cry  out,  but  could  not.  They 
carried  him  to  his  cubicle  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness, 
which  passed  into  a  profound,  deathlike  sleep. 


234  THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM 

II 

It  was  night  when  he  awoke.  All  was  quiet.  The 
heavy  breathing  of  patients  sleeping  in  the  large  room 
near  was  audible.  A  patient,  placed  for  the  night  in  the 
dark  room,  was  talking  to  himself  in  a  strange  and  mono- 
tonous voice.  Above,  in  the  women's  ward,  a  hoarse 
contralto  was  singing  some  wild  song.  The  patient 
listened  to  these  sounds.  He  felt  a  terrible  weakness 
and  lassitude  in  all  his  limbs.  His  neck  was  dreadfully 
painful. 

*'  Where  am  I  ?  What  has  happened  to  me  ?"  came 
into  his  head.  Then  suddenly,  with  extraordinary  vivid- 
ness, his  life  during  the  last  month  came  before  him,  and 
he  understood  that  he  was  unwell,  and  in  what  way  he 
was  unwell.  He  recalled  a  series  of  absurd  thoughts, 
words,  and  actions  which  made  him  shudder  throughout 
his  whole  being.  "  But  that  is  ended  ;  thank  God,  it  is 
ended  !"  he  whispered  to  himself,  and  again  fell  asleep. 

An  opened  window,  but  guarded  with  iron  bars,  looked 
out  on  a  little  corner  between  the  big  buildings  and  a 
stone  wall.  Into  this  corner  no  one  ever  went,  and  it 
was  overgrown  with  some  wild  shrub  and  a  lilac  in 
gaudily  full  blossom  at  this  time  of  the  year.  Behind 
these  bushes  directly  opposite  the  window  a  high  wall 
loomed,  from  behind  which,  in  turn,  glanced  lofty  tops  of 
trees,  and  through  their  leafy  branches  pierced  the  moon- 
light, which  was  bathing  all  around,  including  the  big 
garden  from  which  these  trees  arose.  On  the  right  was 
the  white  building  of  the  Asylum,  with  its  iron-barred 
windows,  through  which  the  lights  were  visible.  On  the 
left,  white  and  brilliant  in  the  moonlight,  was  the  blank 
wall  of  the  mortuary.  The  moon's  rays,  shining  past 
the  iron  bars  of  the  window  into  the  room,  fell  on  to  the 
floor,  and  lighted  up  a  part  of  the  bed,  bringing  into  relief 
the  worn  pallid  face  of  its  occupant  lying  with  closed 
eyes.     There  was  no  trace  of  insanity  in  its  features  now. 


THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM  235 

It  was  the  deep,  heavy  sleep  of  an  exhausted  being, 
dreamless,  motionless,  and  almost  breathless.  For  a  few 
seconds  he  awoke,  fully  conscious,  and  apparently  sane, 
only  to  rise  in  the  morning  from  his  bed  again  bereft  of 
reason. 

Ill 

"  How  do  you  feel  V  asked  the  doctor  of  him  the 
following  morning. 

The  patient,  having  only  just  awakened,  was  still  lying 
in  bed. 

"  Splendid  !"  he  replied,  jumping  out  of  bed,  putting 
on  his  slippers,  and  wrapping  himself  up  in  his  dressing- 
gown — "  first-rate  !  Except  for  one  thing.  Look  !"  He 
pointed  to  the  nape  of  his  neck.  "  I  cannot  turn  my  head 
without  pain.  But  it  is  nothing.  All  is  good  if  you 
understand  it,  and  I  understand." 

"  You  know  where  you  are  ?" 

**  Of  course,  doctor  !  I  am  in  an  Asylum.  But  once 
you  understand,  it  is  absolutely  all  the  same — absolutely." 

The  doctor  looked  him  fixedly  in  the  eyes.  His  hand- 
some, attractive  face,  with  its  well-tended  golden  beard 
and  the  calm  blue  eyes  which  looked  through  gold-rimmed 
spectacles,  was  immovable  and  inscrutable.  He  was 
observing  his  patient. 

*'  Why  are  you  looking  at  me  so  fixedly  ?  You  will 
not  read  what  is  in  my  mind,"  continued  the  sick  man, 
**  and  I  can  clearly  read  what  is  in  yours.  Why  do  you 
do  evil  ?  Why  have  you  collected  this  crowd  of  unfortu- 
nates here,  and  why  do  you  keep  them  here  ?  To  me  it 
is  all  the  same.  I  understand  everything,  and  am  calm, 
but  they  !  What  is  the  purpose  of  all  this  torture  ?  To 
one  who  has  recognized  that  in  his  mind  there  exists  a 
mighty  idea — to  him  it  is  a  matter  of  indifference  where 
he  lives  or  does  not  live,  and  what  he  feels.  It  is  a  matter 
of  indifference  even  whether  he  lives  or  dies.  Is  not  that 
so?" 


236  THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM 

''  Perhaps/'  replied  the  doctor,  seating  himself  on  a 
chair  in  a  corner  of  the  room  so  as  to  watch  the  patient, 
who  shuffled  rapidly  from  corner  to  corner  in  a  pair  of 
huge,  horse-hide  slippers,  waving  the  folds  of  his  dressing- 
gown,  made  of  some  cotton  material  on  which  was  printed 
wide  stripes  and  large  flowers.  The  "  dresser  "  and  head 
warder,  who  had  accompanied  the  doctor,  remained 
standing  to  attention  at  the  door. 

"  And  I  have  this  idea  !"  exclaimed  the  patient ;  "  and 
when  I  discovered  it  I  felt  reborn.  My  senses  have 
become  more  acute,  my  brain  works  as  it  never  did 
formerly.  What  was  once  attained  by  a  long  process  of 
conjecture  and  reasoning  I  now  know  intuitively.  I  am 
an  illustration  of  the  great  idea  that  space  and  time — are 
fictions.  I  live  in  all  centuries.  I  live  outside  of  space, 
everywhere  or  nowhere,  as  you  wish.  And  therefore  it 
is  all  the  same  to  me  whether  you  detain  me  here  or 
release  me,  whether  I  am  free  or  bound.  I  have  noticed 
that  there  are  several  such  here.  But  for  the  remainder 
their  position  is  appalling.  Why  do  you  not  release 
them  ?     To  whom  is  it  necessary  ?" 

'*  You  say,''  interrupted  the  doctor,  "  that  you  live 
apart  from  time  and  space.  But  you  cannot,  however, 
deny  that  we  are  with  you  in  this  room,  and  that  now  " — 
here  the  doctor  pulled  out  his  watch—"  it  is  half- 
past  ten  on  May  6,  i8 — .  What  are  your  views  on 
this  ?" 

"  None.  To  me  it  is  all  the  same  where  and  when  I 
live.  If  to  me  it  is  all  the  same,  does  it  not  mean  that  / 
am  everywhere  and  always  ?" 

The  doctor  laughed. 

"  Rare  logic,"  he  said,  rising.  "  Au  revoir.  Would 
you  care  for  a  cigar  ?" 

"  Thank  you."  The  patient  stopped,  took  the  cigar, 
and  nervously  bit  off  its  end.  "  This  will  assist  me  to 
think,"  he  said.  "  This  world  is  a  microcosm.  At  one 
end  alkali,  at  the  other — acid.     Such  is  the  equihbrium 


THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM 


237 


of  the  world  in  which  opposing  principles  neutralize  each 
other.     Good-bye,  doctor  !" 

The  doctor  went  farther.  The  greater  part  of  the 
patients  awaited  him  standing  to  attention.  No  chief 
enjoys  such  respect  from  his  subordinates  as  does  the 
mental  doctor  from  those  placed  under  his  care. 

Our  patient,  left  alone,  continued  to  stride  from  corner 
to  corner  of  his  cubicle.  They  brought  him  a  large  mug 
of  tea,  which  he  emptied  in  two  gulps  without  sitting 
down  ;  and  a  large  slice  of  white  bread,  which  disappeared 
as  if  by  magic.  Then  he  left  his  room,  and  for  several 
hours  without  cessation  paced  in  his  rapid  and  agitated 
manner  from  end  to  end  of  the  whole  building.  It  was  a 
rainy  day,  and  the  patients  were  not  allowed  into  the 
garden.  When  the  "  dresser  "  went  to  look  for  the  new 
patient,  the  others  pointed  to  him  at  the  end  of  the 
corridor.  He  was  standing  there  with  his  face  pressed 
close  to  the  pane  of  the  glass  door  leading  into  the  garden, 
and  was  staring  fixedly  at  a  flower-bed.  An  unusually 
bright  scarlet  blossom  of  the  poppy  variety  had  attracted 
his  attention. 

"  Please  come  and  be  weighed,"  said  the  "  dresser," 
touching  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  nearly  falling  down 
from  fright  when  the  patient  turned  round,  such  wild 
malice  and  hatred  were  burning  in  his  imbecile  eyes. 
But,  seeing  the  "  dresser,"  his  expression  immediately 
changed,  and  he  followed  obediently  behind  the  oflicial 
without  saying  a  word,  apparently  engrossed  in  profound 
thought.  They  entered  the  doctor's  room,  and  the 
patient  of  his  own  accord  stood  on  the  platform  of  the 
weighing-machine.  The  "  dresser  "  entered  his  weight 
as  109  pounds.  The  following  day  he  weighed  only 
107  pounds,  and  the  day  after  106  pounds. 

"  If  he  continues  like  this,  he  will  not  live,"  said  the 
doctor,  and  gave  instructions  that  he  was  to  be  given  the 
best  dietary. 

But,  in  spite  of  this,  and  notwithstanding  his  enormous 


238  THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM 

appetite,  the  patient  continued  to  lose  weight,  and  grew 
thinner  and  thinner.  He  scarcely  ever  slept,  and  spent 
the  whole  and  almost  every  day  in  uninterrupted  move- 
ment. 

IV 

He  understood  that  he  was  in  a  madhouse.  He  knew 
even  that  he  was  ill.  Sometimes,  as  during  the  first 
night,  he  would  awake  in  the  quietness  after  a  whole 
day  of  violent  exercise,  feeling  exhaustion  in  every  limb 
and  a  dreadful  heaviness  in  his  head,  but  fully  conscious. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  absence  of  impressions  in  the  stillness 
of  the  night  and  half-light.  Perhaps  it  was  the  feeble 
working  of  the  brain  of  a  but  just  awakened  being  that 
caused  him  during  such  moments  to  understand  fully  his 
position,  and  made  him  apparently  sane.  But  when 
morning  arrived  with  the  light  and  awakening  of  life  in 
the  Asylum,  delusions  again  engulfed  him  as  in  a  wave. 
The  diseased  brain  could  not  grapple  with  them,  and  he 
once  more  became  insane.  His  condition  was  a  strange 
mixture  of  correct  reasoning  and  nonsense.  He  under- 
stood that  all  around  him  were  lunatics,  but  at  the  same 
time  he  saw  in  each  of  them  somebody  mysterious,  a 
person  hiding  or  hidden  whom  he  had  known  previously, 
or  of  whom  he  had  read  or  heard.  The  Asylum  was  in- 
habited by  persons  of  all  ages  and  nationalities,  dead 
and  living.  Here  there  were  the  famed  and  strong  of 
the  world,  and  soldiers  killed  in  the  last  war,  but  now 
resurrected.  He  saw  himself  in  some  magic  enchanted 
circle,  having  collected  to  himself  all  the  forces  of  the 
earth,  and  in  proud  delirium  he  deemed  himself  the 
centre  of  this  circle.  All  his  comrades  in  the  Asylum 
were  gathered  there  to  perform  a  duty  which,  in  a  con- 
fused manner,  appeared  to  him  as  a  gigantic  enterprise 
directed  towards  the  extinction  of  evil  on  earth.  He  did 
not  know  in  what  the  task  would  consist,  but  felt  himself 
possessed  of  sufficient  strength  to  execute  it.     He  could 


THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM  239 

read  the  thoughts  of  others.  He  saw  in  things  their 
whole  history.  The  large  elms  in  the  Asylum  garden 
revealed  whole  legends  of  the  past  to  him.  The  building, 
which  really  was  of  old  construction,  he  considered  a 
structure  of  Peter  the  Great,  and  was  convinced  that  that 
Tsar  had  lived  in  it  at  the  time  of  the  Poltava  battle. 
He  read  this  in  the  walls,  the  plaster  which  had  fallen, 
in  the  pieces  of  brick  and  Dutch  tiles  found  by  him  in 
the  garden.  The  whole  history  of  the  house  and  garden 
was  written  in  them.  He  peopled  the  little  building 
which  did  duty  as  a  mortuary  with  tens  and  hundreds 
of  persons  long  since  dead,  and  fixedly  gazed  into  the 
little  window  of  its  cellar,  which  looked  into  the  garden, 
seeing  in  the  uneven  reflection  of  light  on  the  old  rainbow- 
tinted  and  dirty  glass  familiar  features  encountered  by 
him  at  some  period  in  life  or  seen  in  portraits. 

In  the  meanwhile  there  came  a  period  of  bright  fine 
weather.  The  patients  spent  the  whole  day  out  of  doors 
in  the  garden.  Their  part  of  the  garden,  small  and 
thickly  overgrown  with  trees,  was,  wherever  possible, 
planted  with  flowers.  The  Superintendent  insisted  that 
all  who  were  capable  of  so  doing  should  work  in  the 
garden.  Every  day  they  swept  and  sprinkled  the  paths 
with  sand,  weeded  and  watered  the  flower-beds,  vege- 
tables, and  fruit  which  they  themselves  had  planted. 
In  a  corner  of  the  garden  was  an  overgrown  cherry 
orchard.  Alongside  it  stretched  an  avenue  of  elms,  in 
the  centre  of  which,  on  a  small  artificial  mound,  there  was 
laid  out  the  prettiest  flower-bed  in  the  garden.  Bright- 
coloured  flowers  grew  along  the  edges  of  the  upper  space, 
whilst  the  centre  was  adorned  by  a  large  full  and  rare 
yellow  dahlia  with  red  spots.  It  formed  the  centre  of 
the  whole  garden,  rising  above  it,  and  it  was  noticeable 
that  many  of  the  patients  invested  it  with  some  secret 
significance.  To  the  new  patient  it  also  appeared  to  be 
something  out  of  the  common,  some  palladium  of  the 
garden  and  building.     All  around  the  paths  had  also  been 


240  THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM 

planted  by  the  patients.  Here  there  was  every  possible 
flower  met  with  in  the  gardens  of  "  Little  "  Russia  :  high- 
growing  roses,  bright  petunias,  groups  of  tall  tobacco- 
plants  with  small  rose-coloured  bloom,  mint,  nasturtiums, 
pinks,  and  poppies.  Here,  too,  not  far  from  a  flight  of 
steps,  grew  three  small  clusters  of  a  particular  kind  of 
poppy.  It  was  much  smaller  than  the  ordinary  variety,  and 
differed  in  its  extraordinarily  brilliant  blood-red  blossom. 

It  was  this  blossom  which  had  astonished  the  patient 
when,  on  the  first  day  after  his  admission  into  the  Asylum, 
he  had  seen  it  through  the  glass  door.  Going  out  for 
the  first  time  into  the  garden,  he  first  of  all,  without 
leaving  the  steps  which  led  from  the  corridor,  looked  at 
the  brilliant  blossoms.  There  were  only  two  of  them. 
By  chance  they  had  grown  apart  from  the  other  flowers 
and  in  an  unweeded  spot,  so  that  they  were  surrounded 
by  a  thick  growth  of  weeds  and  grass. 

The  patients  filed,  one  by  one,  out  of  the  glass  door, 
at  which  stood  a  warder,  who  gave  to  each  as  he  passed 
a  thick  white  cotton  cap  having  a  red  cross  in  front. 
These  caps  had  been  intended  for  hospital  use  during 
the  war,  and  had  been  bought  at  an  auction.  But  the 
patients,  of  course,  attributed  a  special  hidden  meaning 
to  the  cross.  The  new-comer  took  off  his  cap,  and  looked 
first  at  the  cross,  then  at  the  poppy-blossoms.  The 
latter  were  the  brighter. 

"  It  wins,"  said  he  ;  "  but  we  will  see  ;"  and  he  went 
down  the  steps.  Having  hastily  glanced  around,  and 
having  failed  to  notice  the  warder  standing  behind  him, 
the  patient  stepped  on  to  the  flower-bed  and  stretched 
out  his  hand  towards  the  flower,  but  could  not  decide  to 
pluck  it.  He  experienced  a  warm  and  stinging  sensation 
at  first  in  his  outstretched  hand,  and  then  throughout  his 
whole  body,  as  if  some  powerful  shock  from  a  force  un- 
known to  him  was  emanating  from  the  red  petals  and 
was  penetrating  through  him.  He  moved  closer,  and  put 
out  his  hand  towards  the  actual  blossom,  but  it  seemed 


THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM  241 

to  him  that  it  was  defending  itself  and  giving  out  a 
poisonous  deadly  exhalation.  His  head  was  reeling,  but 
nevertheless  he  made  one  last  desperate  effort,  and  had 
already  seized  the  stalk,  when  a  heavy  hand  was  laid 
suddenly  on  his  shoulder.     It  was  the  old  warder. 

"  It  is  forbidden  to  pluck  the  flowers,"  said  he,  "  and 
you  must  not  go  on  to  the  flower-beds.  If  each  of  you 
is  going  to  pick  the  flower  which  attracts  you,  the  whole 
garden  will  be  spoilt,"  continued  he  with  conviction, 
still  holding  the  culprit  by  the  shoulder. 

The  patient  looked  him  in  the  face,  without  saying  a 
word  freed  himself,  and,  in  a  state  of  excitement,  passed 
on  along  the  path.  "  Oh,  unhappy  ones  !"  he  thought  ; 
"  you  do  not  see.  You  are  so  blind  that  you  defend  it  ! 
But  at  all  costs  I  will  put  an  end  to  it.  If  not  to-day, 
then  to-morrow  we  will  measure  forces.  And  if  I  perish, 
is  it  not  all  the  same  ?" 

He  walked  about  in  the  garden  until  the  evening, 
making  acquaintances  and  carrying  on  strange  conversa- 
tions  first  with  one  and  then  with  another  of  his  com- 
panions, and  at  the  end  of  the  day  was  still  more  convinced 
that  "  all  was  ready,"  as  he  said  to  himself.  **  Soon, 
soon  the  iron  bars  will  fall  asunder  ;  all  these  prisoners 
will  issue  hence,  and  will  flash  to  all  ends  of  the  earth. 
The  whole  world  will  tremble,  will  divest  itself  of  its 
ancient  covering,  and  will  appear  in  new  and  wondrous 
beauty."  He  had  almost  forgotten  the  blossoms,  but, 
on  leaving  the  garden  and  mounting  the  flight  of  steps, 
he  again  saw  them  in  the  thick  grass  which  had  already 
become  covered  with  dew,  whereupon,  keeping  back  from 
the  rest  of  the  patients,  he  awaited  a  favourable  oppor- 
tunity. No  one  saw  him  as  he  jumped  across  the  flower- 
bed, grasped  the  flower,  and  hurriedly  hid  it  against  his 
chest  under  his  shirt.  When  the  fresh  dew-covered 
leaves  touched  his  body  he  became  deathly  pale,  and,  in 
an  agony  of  fear,  opened  his  eyes  widely.  A  cold  per- 
spiration broke  out  on  his  forehead. 

16 


242  THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM 

Inside  the  Asylum  they  had  lit  the  lamps,  and  the 
majority  of  the  patients,  whilst  waiting  supper,  were 
lying  on  their  beds.  A  few  restless  ones  were  pacing  the 
corridor  and  halls.  Amongst  these  was  the  patient  with 
the  flower.  He  walked  with  his  hands  crossed  on  his 
chest.  It  seemed  as  if  he  wished  to  crush  the  plant  hidden 
on  it.  When  meeting  the  other  patients,  he  passed  them 
at  a  distance,  fearing  to  come  into  contact  with  any  part 
of  their  clothes.  "  Do  not  come  near  !  Do  not  come 
near  me  !"  he  cried  out.  But  in  the  Asylum  little  atten- 
tion was  paid  to  such  exclamations,  and  for  two  hours 
he  paced  thus  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  ever  faster  and  faster, 
and  with  ever-increasing  strides. 

"  I  will  tire  thee  out,  I  will  stifle  thee,"  he  muttered 
maliciously.     Sometimes  he  ground  his  teeth. 

Supper  was  served  in  the  dining-hall.  Wooden  painted 
and  gilded  bowls  were  placed  at  intervals  on  the  large 
tables  bare  of  cloths.  These  bowls  contained  a  liquid 
wheaten  gruel.  The  patients  sat  on  benches,  and  each 
was  given  a  portion  of  black  bread.  They  ate  with 
wooden  spoons,  eight  to  every  one  bowl.  Those  who 
were  ordered  better  food  were  served  separately.  Our 
patient  quickly  gulped  down  his  portion,  which  had  been 
brought  to  his  room  by  a  warder  ;  then,  still  unsatisfied, 
he  went  into  the  common  dining-room. 

**  Allow  me  to  eat  here  ?"  he  said  to  the  Superintendent. 

*'  But  surely  you  have  had  your  supper,"  replied  he, 
pouring  out  an  extra  portion  into  a  bowl. 

"  I  am  very  hungry,  and  it  is  most  necessary  for  me  to 
recruit  my  strength.  All  my  support  is  in  food.  You 
know  that  I  do  not  sleep  at  all." 

*'  Eat  and  get  well,  my  friend,"  said  the  Superinten- 
dent, giving  orders  to  a  warder  to  give  the  patient  a  spoon 
and  some  bread. 

He  sat  down  near  one  of  the  bowls,  and  ate  a  further 
enormous  amount  of  gruel. 

"  That  is  enough  now,"  said  the  Superintendent  at  last. 


THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM  243 

when  all  had  finished  their  supper  ;  but  our  patient  still 
continued  to  sit  in  front  of  the  bowl,  scraping  the  gruel 
out  of  it  with  one  hand,  and  holding  the  other  tightly  to 
his  chest.     "  You  will  overeat  yourself." 

"  Ah  !  if  only  you  knew  how  much  I  am  in  need  of 
strength  !  Good-bye,  sir,"  said  the  patient,  at  last 
rising  from  the  table  and  warmly  pressing  the  Superin- 
tendent's hand.     "  Good-bye." 

"  But  where  are  you  going  ?"  inquired  the  Superinten- 
dent, with  a  smile. 

"  I  ?  Nowhere.  I  am  staying  here.  But  perhaps  we 
shall  not  see  each  other  to-morrow.  I  thank  you  for  all 
your  kindness."  And  he  again  warmly  clasped  the  Super- 
intendent's hand,  whilst  his  voice  trembled  and  tears 
came  welling  into  his  eyes. 

"  Calm  yourself,  my  good  friend  —  calm  yourself," 
replied  the  Superintendent.  "  What  is  the  use  of  such 
dismal  thoughts  ?  Go  and  lie  down  and  sleep  well.  You 
want  more  sleep.    If  you  sleep  well,  you  will  soon  recover." 

The  patient  sobbed.  The  Superintendent  turned  round 
to  order  the  warder  to  clear  away  the  remains  of  the 
supper  more  quickly,  and  in  half  an  hour  afterwards  all 
in  the  Asylum  were  already  asleep,  with  the  exception  of 
one  patient,  who  lay  on  his  bed  in  the  corner  of  the 
room  fully  dressed.  He  was  trembling  as  if  in  a  fever,  and 
spasmodically  held  his  chest,  impregnated,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  with  a  strange  and  deadly  poison. 


He  did  not  sleep  all  night.  He  had  plucked  the  flower 
because  he  saw  in  this  action  a  deed  he  was  in  duty  bound 
to  perform.  At  the  very  first  glance  through  the  glass 
door  the  blood-red  petals  had  attracted  his  attention, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  from  this  moment  it  was  per- 
fectly clear  what  in  particular  he  was  called  upon  to 
perform  on  earth.  In  this  brilliant  red  flower  was  col- 
lected all   the  evil  existent  on  earth.      He  knevv^  that 


244  THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM 

opium  is  made  from  poppies,  and  perhaps  this  knowledge, 
taking  some  fantastic,  distorted  form,  had  induced  him 
to  create  this  terrible  and  monstrous  phantom.  In  his 
eyes  the  flower  was  the  personification  of  all  evil.  It 
flourished  on  all  innocent  bloodshed  (which  was  why  it 
was  so  red),  on  all  tears,  and  all  human  venom.  It  was 
a  mysterious,  awful  being,  the  antithesis  of  God — Ahriman 
— ^who  had  taken  a  modest  and  innocent  form.  It  was 
necessary  to  pluck  and  kill  it.  But  more  than  this  was 
necessary  ;  it  was  necessary  not  to  allow  it  to  emit  all  its 
evil  into  the  world.  Therefore  he  had  hid  it  in  his  chest. 
He  hoped  that  by  the  morning  it  would  have  lost  all  its 
strength,  that  its  evil  would  have  passed  into  his  body, 
his  soul,  and  there  be  conquered  or  conquer — when,  if 
the  latter,  he  would  himself  perish,  die,  but  die  as  an 
honourable  knight  and  the  first  to  wrestle  at  once  with  all 
the  evil  in  this  world.  "  They  have  not  seen  it.  I  saw 
it.     Could  I  let  it  live  ?     Better  death  \" 

And  he  lay  wearing  himself  out  in  a  struggle,  phantom 
and  unreal,  but  nevertheless  exhausting.  In  the  morning 
the  "  dresser  "  found  him  scarcely  alive.  But  this  not- 
withstanding, in  a  short  time  excitability  once  more 
gained  the  upper  hand.  He  jumped  up  from  his  bed,  and 
resumed  his  former  race  through  the  passages  of  the 
Asylum,  conversing  with  the  other  patients  and  himself 
more  loudly  and  disjointedly  than  at  any  previous  time. 

They  would  not  let  him  into  the  garden.  The  doctor, 
seeing  that  his  weight  was  daily  decreasing,  and  that  he 
never  slept,  but  continued  incessantly  to  walk  and  walk, 
ordered  that  a  strong  dose  of  morphia  be  injected  hypo- 
dermically.  He  did  not  resist.  Luckily,  on  this  occa- 
sion his  disordered  brain  in  some  manner  accepted  the 
operation.  He  quickly  fell  asleep,  the  feverish  activity 
ceased,  and  the  great  motive  which  was  its  constant  com- 
panion ceased  to  ring  in  his  ears.  He  forgot  all,  and 
ceased  to  think  of  anything,  even  of  the  second  blossom 
which  it  was  necessary  to  pick. 


THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM  245 

However,  he  plucked  it  after  an  interval  of  three  days 
before  the  very  eyes  of  the  old  warder,  who  was  unable 
to  prevent  him  doing  so.  The  warder  gave  chase,  but 
with  a  loud  triumphant  yell  the  patient  rushed  into  the 
Asylum  and,  hurling  himself  into  his  room,  hid  the  plant 
on  his  chest. 

**  Why  do  you  pick  the  flowers  ?"  asked  the  warder, 
who  had  followed  after  him.  But  the  patient,  who  was 
already  lying  on  his  bed  in  his  usual  position  with  his 
arms  crossed,  commenced  to  rave  so  incoherently  that 
the  warder  went  away.  And  once  more  the  phantom 
struggle  commenced.  The  patient  felt  that  from  the 
flower  an  evil  was  exuding  in  long,  gliding,  snakelike 
streams.  It  was  wrapping  around  him,  pressing  and 
crushing  his  limbs,  and  was  impregnating  the  whole  of 
his  body  with  its  awful  substance.  He  wept  and  prayed 
in  the  intervals  between  the  curses  he  showered  on  his 
enemy.  By  the  evening  the  flower  had  quite  faded. 
The  sick  man  stamped  on  the  blackened  blossom,  col- 
lected the  pieces  from  the  floor,  and  carried  them  to  the 
bath-room.  Throwing  the  shapeless  bruised  piece  of 
erstwhile  green  into  the  red-hot  stove,  he  long  watched 
how  his  enemy  hissed,  diminished,  and  finally  became 
converted  into  a  tender  snow-white  ball  of  ash.  He 
blew,  and  it  all  disappeared. 

The  following  day  the  patient  became  worse.  But 
although  dreadfully  pale,  with  hollow  cheeks  and  burning 
e^^es  which  had  sunken  far  into  their  sockets,  he  con- 
tinued his  frenzied  walking,  raving  almost  without  cessa- 
tion, tottering  and  stumbling  from  weakness. 

**  I  do  not  wish  to  have  resort  to  force,"  said  the  senior 
doctor  to  his  assistant,  "  but  if  this  goes  on  much  longer 
he  will  die  in  two  or  three  days'  time.  We  must  stop 
this  walking.  To-day  he  weighs  only  ninety-three  pounds. 
Yesterday  morphia  had  no  effect."  Then,  after  a  short 
silence,  he  gave  instructions  that  the  patient  should  be 
bound,  expressing  at  the  same  time  doubts  as  to  his 


246  THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM 

ultimate  recovery.  And  they  bound  him.  He  lay 
clothed  in  a  strait-jacket  on  his  bed,  tightly  fastened 
by  wide  strips  of  calico  to  the  iron  framework  of  the  bed. 
But  the  frenzied  activity  increased  rather  than  dimin- 
ished. For  many  hours  he  strove  persistently  to  free 
himself.  Eventually  by  a  strenuous  effort  he  succeeded 
in  bursting  one  of  his  pinions,  freed  his  legs,  and  having 
slipped  from  under  the  rest  of  his  fetters,  began,  with  his 
arms  still  bound,  to  pace  his  room,  giving  vent  to  wild, 
unintelligible  utterances. 

The  warder,  coming  into  the  room,  called  loudly  for 
help,  and  with  two  of  his  brother-warders  threw  them- 
selves on  the  patient,  whereupon  a  long  struggle  com- 
menced, tiring  for  them  and  torturing  for  the  patient, 
who  was  in  this  way  using  up  the  remnants  of  his  almost 
exhausted  forces.  Finally,  they  laid  him  on  his  bed  and 
bound  him  tighter  than  before. 

"  You  do  not  understand  what  you  are  doing  !"  he 
panted.  ''  You  will  perish.  I  saw  a  third  scarcely 
opened  blossom.  Now  it  must  be  ready.  Let  me  finish 
my  work  !  It  must  be  killed — killed — killed  !  Then  all 
will  be  finished  and  all  saved.  I  would  send  you,  but 
only  I  can  do  this.  You  would  perish  merely  from 
contact  with  it." 

"  Be  quiet — stop  talking  !"  said  the  old  warder  left  to 
watch  near  his  bed. 

VI 

The  patient  suddenly  stopped  talking.  He  had  decided 
on  stratagem.  He  decided  to  deceive  his  warder.  They 
kept  him  bound  all  day,  and  left  him  so  during  the  night. 
Having  given  him  his  supper,  the  old  attendant  placed  a 
mat  near  the  bed  and  laid  down.  In  a  few  moments  he 
was  sound  asleep,  and  the  patient  began  his  task. 

Contorting  his  body  so  as  to  get  at  the  ironwork  of  the 
bedstead,  and  feeling  for  the  edge  of  the  iron  frame  with 
his  wrist  hidden  in  the  long  sleeves  of  the  strait-jacket, 


THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM  247 

he  commenced  quickly  and  vigorously  to  rub  the  sleeve 
on  it.  After  a  short  time  the  thick  canvas  gave  way, 
and  he  had  freed  his  wrists  and  the  first  finger  of  one  of 
his  hands.  Then  matters  progressed  more  speedily. 
With  an  ingenuity  born  of  insanity  he  untied  the  knot 
behind  his  back  which  secured  the  sleeves,  unlaced  the 
jacket,  and  then  for  a  long  time  listened  intently  to  the 
snoring  of  the  warder.  Satisfied  that  the  old  man  was 
sleeping  soundly,  the  patient  took  off  the  jacket  and  slid 
from  the  bed.  He  was  free  !  He  tried  the  door.  It  was 
locked  from  the  inside,  and  the  key  was  probably  in  the 
warder's  pocket.  Afraid  of  awaking  him,  he  did  not  dare 
to  search  his  pockets,  and  so  decided  to  get  out  of  his 
room  through  the  window. 

It  was  a  still,  warm,  dark  night.  The  window  was 
open.  The  stars  were  shining.  He  gazed  at  them,  recog- 
nizing familiar  constellations;  and  rejoicing  that  they,  as 
it  seemed  to  him,  understood  and  were  in  sympathy  with 
him.  His  mad  resolution  increased.  It  was  necessary 
to  get  rid  of  the  iron  bar  which  formed  the  grating  of  the 
window  in  order  to  be  able  to  clamber  through  the  narrow 
opening  into  the  corner  of  the  garden,  overgrown  just 
here  with  bushes,  and  to  scale  over  the  high  stone  wall. 
Then  would  come  the  last  struggle,  and  afterwards — 
mayhap  death  ! 

He  tried  ineffectually  to  bend  the  thick  iron  bar  with 
his  bare  hands.  Then  he  made  a  cord  by  twisting  up  the 
strong  canvas  sleeves  of  the  strait-jacket,  and  fastened 
it  to  the  forged  spike  on  the  end  of  the  bar.  Upon  this 
he  hung  with  the  whole  weight  of  his  body.  After  frantic 
efforts,  almost  exhausting  his  remaining  stock  of  strength, 
the  spike  gave  way,  and  the  narrow  passage  was  open. 
He  squeezed  through  it,  bruising  and  lacerating  his 
shoulders,  elbows,  and  bared  knees,  and  pushed  his  way 
through  the  bushes,  but  came  to  a  stop  before  the  wall. 
All  was  quiet.  The  light  of  the  small  lamps  used  in  the 
rooms  showed  feebly  through  the  windows  of  the  build- 


248  THE  SCARLET  BLOSSOM 

ing.  No  one  was  to  be  seen  inside  it.  Nobody  saw  him. 
The  old  warder  watching  by  his  bed  was  probably  still 
sound  asleep.  The  twinkling  rays  of  the  stars  seemed  to 
penetrate  into  his  very  heart,  giving  him  renewed  spirit. 

"  I  am  coming  to  you,"  he  whispered,  glancing  up- 
wards. 

Having  fallen  at  the  first  attempt  to  scale  the  wall, 
with  torn  nails  and  bleeding  hands  and  knees  he  began 
to  search  for  a  suitable  place.  A  few  bricks  had  become 
detached  from  the  wall  where  it  met  the  wall  of  the 
Mortuary,  and  making  use  of  the  hollows  thus  formed, 
the  patient  climbed  on  to  the  wall,  seized  hold  of  the 
branches  of  an  elm  growing  on  the  other  side,  and  quietly 
let  himself  down  the  tree  on  to  the  ground. 

He  rushed  to  the  well-known  spot  near  the  flight  of 
steps.  The  blossom  with  its  closed  petals  showed  up 
clearly  and  darkly  in  the  dewy  grass. 

"  The  last  !"  whispered  the  patient — *'  the  last  !  To- 
day is  victory  or  death  !  But  it  is  all  the  same  to  me. 
Wait,"  said  he,  gazing  up  to  the  starry  sky,  "  I  will  soon 
be  with  you." 

He  rooted  up  the  plant,  tore  it  to  pieces,  and  holding 
it  crushed  in  his  clenched  hand,  he  returned  to  his  room 
the  same  way  he  had  left  it.  The  old  warder  still  slept. 
The  patient,  barely  reaching  the  bed,  fell  on  to  it  sense- 
less. 

In  the  morning  they  found  him  dead.  His  face  was 
calm  and  serene.  The  tired  features,  with  the  thin  lips 
and  deeply  sunken  closed  eyes,  wore  an  expression  of 
proud  happiness.  When  they  had  laid  him  on  a  stretcher 
they  attempted  to  open  his  clenched  hand  and  remove 
the  scarlet  blossom.  But  it  was  too  late,  and  he  carried 
his  trophy  to  the  grave. 


» 


XIII 

THE  BEARS 

In  the  Steppe  the  town  of  Bielsk  nestles  on  the  River 
Rokhla  at  a  point  where  it  makes  several  sharp  curves 
linked  up  by  branch  streams,  the  whole  forming  a  net- 
work which,  if  looked  at  on  a  clear  summer  day  from  the 
lofty  right  bank  of  the  channel  through  which  the  river 
runs  here,  resembles  a  gigantic  bow  of  blue  ribbon.  At 
this  point  the  bank  rises  some  three  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
sheer  above  the  level  of  the  river  as  if  it  had  been  cut  by 
a  huge  knife.  So  steep  is  it  that  to  clamber  from  the 
water's  edge  to  the  top,  where  the  limitless  Steppe  com- 
mences, is  possible  only  by  taking  hold  of  the  bushes  of 
spindlewood,  birch,  and  hazel  thickly  covering  the  face 
of  the  slope.  From  this  summit  a  clear  view  of  forty 
versts  opens  out  on  every  side.  On  the  right  to  the  south 
and  on  the  left  to  the  north  stretch  the  gradients  of  the 
right  bank  of  the  Rokhla,  descending  abruptly  into 
valleys  such  as  the  one  from  above  which  we  are  gazing. 
Some  of  the  ridges  show  up  white  with  their  chalk  tops 
and  naked  sides  destitute  of  soil.  Others  are  covered 
for  the  most  part  with  short  and  withered  grass.  In 
front  to  the  east  stretches  the  illimitable  undulating 
Steppe,  yellow  with  haystacks,  over  which  some  useless 
weed  is  growing  thickly,  or  verdant  with  growing  crops, 
here  showing  the  dark  purple-black  of  newly  upturned 
fallow,  there  the  silvery  grey  of  feather-grass.  Viewed 
from  where  we  are  standing,  the  Steppe  appears  level, 

249 


250  THE  BEARS  / 

and  only  the  accustomed  eye  can  trace  on  it  the  scarcely 
discernible  lines  of  ridges,  of  invisible  ravines  and  gullies. 
Here  and  there  an  old  half-sunken  tumulus  meets  the 
view,  its  sides  scarified  by  the  plough,  and  no  longer 
possessed  of  its  stone  slab,  now  perhaps  adorning  the 
courtyard  of  the  Kharkoff  University,  or  perhaps  taken 
away  by  some  peasant,  and  now  forming  part  of  the  wall 
of  his  cattle-yard. 

Below,  the  winding  river  runs  from  north  to  south, 
alternately  receding  from  its  high  bank  into  the  Steppe 
or  flowing  immediately  under  its  ledge,  fringed  at  intervals 
with  clusters  of  pine-trees  and  about  the  town  by  gardens 
and  grazing-plots.  At  some  distance  from  the  bank  to 
the  side  of  the  Steppe  a  strip  of  quicksand  runs  almost 
the  entire  length  of  the  river,  barely  supporting  the  red 
and  black  shoots  of  small  shrubs  growing  on  it,  and  its 
thick  carpet  of  fragrant  lilac-coloured  charbrets.  Amongst 
these  sands,  two  versts  from  the  town,  lies  the  cemetery, 
resembling  from  a  distance  a  little  oasis  with  the  small 
wooden  bell-tower  of  the  cemetery  chapel  rising  from  its 
centre.  The  town  itself  presents  no  outstanding  features, 
and  is  much  like  all  district  towns,  apart  from  the  aston- 
ishing cleanliness  of  its  streets,  due  not  so  much  to  a 
solicitous  municipal  administration  as  to  the  sandy  soil 
on  which  the  town  is  built,  which  absorbs  any  moist  are 
an  incensed  heaven  may  pour  forth,  and  thereby  pbtces 
the  town  swine  in  great  difficulties,  compelling  thern  to 
seek  suitable  accommodation  for  themselves  at  leas  t  two 
versts'  distance  from  the  town  in  the  dirty  banks  of  thci  river. 

In  September  of  1857  ^^e  town  of  Bielsk  was  in  a  state 
of  unwonted  excitement.  The  usual  routine  of  life  was 
disturbed.  Everywhere,  whether  in  the  Club,  streets,  or 
on  the  benches  outside  the  gateway  entrances  of  court- 
yards, indoors  and  outdoors,  animated  conversation  was 
being  carried  on.  It  might  have  been  sup^posed  that  the 
Zemstvo  elections,  which  were  taking  plaice  at  this  time, 


THE  BEARS  251 

were  the  cause  of  disturbance  ;  but  there  had  been 
previous  Zemstvo  elections,  and  with  all  their  scandals 
they  had  never  produced  any  special  impression  on  the 
native  of  Bielsk.  On  these  occasions,  if  meeting  in  the 
street,  the  citizens  would  merely  exchange  brief  remarks 
with  each  other. 

**  Have  you  been  ?"  one  would  ask,  indicating  by  a 
glance  the  building  in  which  the  Zemstvo  ofhces  were 
housed. 

**  Yes,"  would  reply  the  other,  with  a  gesture  of  his 
hand  ;  and,  accustomed  to  this  mode  of  expression  of 
thoughts,  the  interrogator  would  understand  and  simply 
add: 

''  Who  ?" 

"  Ivan  Petrovich." 

''  Whom  r' 

**  Ivan  Parfenovich." 

Then  they  would  both  smile  and  part. 

But  now  it  was  quite  different.  The  town  was  in  an 
uproar  just  as  at  fair-time.  Crowds  of  urchins  kept 
running  backwards  and  forwards  in  the  direction  of  the 
town  common  grazing-ground.  Respectable,  sober  indi- 
viduals in  loose  summer  suits  of  alpaca  silk  were  also 
wending  their  way  thither,  and  the  damsels  of  the  town, 
with  parasols  and  various  coloured  hoop-petticoats  (they 
wore  them  in  those  days),  occupying  so  much  of  the  wide 
street  that  young  Rogacheff,  the  merchant,  driving  a 
dapple  grey,  was  obliged  to  draw  in  almost  against  the 
walls  of  the  houses.  The  ladies  were  accompanied  by 
the  local  cavahers  in  grey  overcoats  with  black  velvet 
collars,  carrying  walking-canes  and  wearing  straw  hats  or 
caps  with  cockades.  Among  these  beaux  were,  of  course, 
the  brothers  Isotoff,  the  leaders  of  all  public  gaieties,  who 
knew  how  during  a  quadrille  to  call  out  "  Grand  Rond  !" 
and  "  Au  rebours  !" — that  is,  when  they  were  not  running 
through  the  town  imparting  the  latest  news  to  their  lady 
acquaintances. 


252  THE  BEARS 

"  They  have  arrived  from  the  Vahiinsk  District,  and 
occupy  half  the  ground  of  the  Common  right  up  to  the 
river,"  said  Leonid,  the  elder  brother. 

"  I  regarded  the  view  from  the  summit  of  the  eminence," 
added  Constantine.  the  younger  brother,  who  delighted 
in  expressing  himself  in  the  most  flowery  language — "  an 
entrancing  picture  !" 

"  Eminence  "  was  the  name  he  gave  to  the  hill  from 
which  a  view  of  the  town  and  its  vicinity  could  be  ob- 
tained. 

"  Ah,  what  a  good  idea  !  Listen  !  I  have  a  splendid 
idea.  Let  us  order  the  lineika,  and  drive  out  to  the 
eminence.  It  will  be  like  a  picnic,  and  we  will  watch 
from  there." 

This  proposal  by  the  first  lady  of  Bielsk,  the  wife  of 
the  brother  of  the  Treasurer  (almost  the  whole  town 
called  her  husband,  Paul  Ivanovich,  the  brother  of  the 
Treasurer),  who  had  arrived  eight  years  ago  from  Peters- 
burg, and  was  therefore  the  authority/  on  fashions  and 
good  tone,  met  with  general  approval.  The  fat  old  bay 
horse  was  harnessed  into  the  lineika,  which  is  only  met 
with  in  provincial  capitals,  and  consists  of  long  boards 
with  two  long  seats  so  placed  that  the  occupants,  usually 
twelve  in  all,  sit  in  two  rows  of  six  or  seven  a  side  and 
back  to  back.  The  party,  which  consisted  of  some  dozen 
persons,  seated  themselves  in  the  lineika,  and  started  off 
through  the  town,  overtaking  mobs  of  boys,  strings  of 
damsels,  and  crowds  of  every  description  of  public,  all 
making  their  wa\^  to  the  Common.  The  lineika,  having 
negotiated  the  sandy  streets  of  the  town,  crossed  the 
bridge  and  made  for  the  steep  right  bank  of  the  river. 
The  bay,  with  dogged  pace,  wrinkling  the  sleek  folds  of 
his  glossy  haunches,  clambered  up  the  long  slope,  and  in 
half  an  hour  the  pic^nickers  were  seated  on  the  edge  of  the 
three  hundred  feet  high  ridge,  withitsovergrowthof  bushes, 
gazing  at  the  view  with  which  we  are  already  acquainted. 
Below,  under  their  feet,  immediately  under  this  wall,  the 


THE  BEARS  253 

river  was  quietly  flowing  along  its  course,  and  behind  it 
opened  out  the  common  on  which  the  general  attention 
was  concentrated. 

In  the  variety  of  colouring  it  resembled  a  huge  patch- 
work carpet.  The  dull  white  of  tents,  numberless  vehicles, 
and  a  motley  crowd  were  all  visible.  Dark  figures  of 
men  in  kaftans  and  dirty  grey  shirts  intermingled  with 
the  bright  yellow  and  scarlet  dresses  of  the  women.  A 
dense  crowd  surrounded  the  gipsy  encampment  which 
had  been  formed.  It  was  a  magnificent  day,  not  too 
hot,  and  absolutely  still.  Above  the  roar  of  a  multi- 
tudinous crowd  could  be  heard  the  ring  of  sledge-hammers 
on  iron,  the  neighing  of  horses,  and  the  roar  of  scores  of 
tame  bears — the  mainstay  of  the  gipsies  who  had  brought 
them  hither  out  of  the  neighbouring  Districts. 

Olga  Pavlona  gazed  at  this  kaleidoscope  through  bin- 
oculars, and  went  into  raptures. 

*'  How  interesting  it  all  is  !  What  a  big  one  !  Look, 
Leonid,  what  a  huge  bear  there  on  the  right  !  And  the 
young  gipsy  alongside  it — a  perfect  Adonis  I" 

She  handed  the  glasses  to  the  young  man,  who  through 
them  saw  the  figure  of  a  well-built  and  exceedingly  dirty 
youth  who  was  standing  near  and  petting  a  beast  which 
kept  shuffling  about  and  changing  from  one  leg  on  to 
another. 

*'  Allow  me  to  look,"  said  a  stout,  clean-shaven  man 
in  a  duck  suit  and  straw  hat.  For  some  time  he  looked 
attentively  through  the  glasses,  and  then,  turning  to  Olga 
Pavlona,  said  with  a  deep  sigh  :  "  Ye-es,  Olga  Pavlona, 
an  Adonis.  But  this  Adonis  will  turn  out  a  first-class 
horse- thief." 

Olga  Pavlona  uttered  an  exclamation  of  impatience. 

"  Why,"  said  she,  "  do  you  always  try  to  turn  every- 
thing poetical  into  prose  ?  Why  a  horse-thief  ?  I  will 
not  believe  it  !     He  looks  so  good  !" 

"  That  may  be,  but  how  is  he  going  to  support  his 
beautiful  body  without  that  bear  ?     To-morrow  they  are 


254  THE  BEARS 

slaughtering  all  these  bears,  and  one-half  of  all  the  gipsies 
in  this  encampment  will  be  without  a  living." 

**  They  can  work  as  blacksmiths  and  shoeing-smiths, 
tell  fortunes  ..." 

"  Tell  fortunes  !  Ilia,  the  horse-doctor,  came  to  me 
yesterday.  You  go  and  talk  with  him.  *  Thomas 
Thomasovich,'  he  said,  '  those  greys  of  yours  are  very 
good,  only  beware  of  our  brother.'  '  What !'  I  said ;  '  surely 
you  will  not  steal  them  ?'  He  smiled,  the  blackguard  ! 
Tell  fortunes  !  Those  are  the  sort  of  fortunes  he  is  telling !" 

Out  of  the  lineika  they  took  a  large  basket,  from  which 
appeared  eatables  and  drinks,  and  the  company  began 
to  seat  themselves  in  groups,  chatting  merrily  the  while, 
and  scarcely  paying  any  attention  to  the  picture  dis- 
played at  their  feet.  The  sun  had  set,  and  the  gigantic 
shadow  of  the  height  quickly  spread  to  the  Common, 
town,  and  Steppe.  Outlines  softened,  and,  as  happens 
in  the  South,  day  was  quickly  replaced  by  night.  Lights 
began  to  flicker  in  the  town,  and  fires  were  lighted  in  the 
camp,  which  showed  up  redly  through  the  mist  rising 
from  the  slumbering  river  below,  the  distant  bends  of 
which  glistened  in  the  cold  moonlight.  And  above  the 
river,  on  the  height  itself,  Constantine  and  Leonid  kept 
up  a  ceaseless  flow  of  ridiculous  stories,  at  which  Olga 
Pavlona  occasionally  smiled  with  condescension,  and  the 
younger  ladies  of  the  party  giggled  or  even  laughed  aloud. 
Candles  protected  by  glass  shades  were  lighted,  and  the 
coachman  with  the  maid  prepared  the  samovar  in  the 
bushes  near  by — a  process  apparently  necessitating  occa^ 
sional,  but  at  the  same  time  very  cautious,  squeaks  on  the 
part  of  the  maid.  Portly  Thomas  Thomasovich  alone 
remained  silent,  and  finally  interrupted  Leonid  at  the 
most  interesting  point  of  one  of  his  anecdotes. 

"  When,  then,  have  they  finally  decided  to  have  this 
slaughter  of  bears  ?"  said  he. 

"  Wednesday  morning,"  said  the  brothers  Isotoff 
simultaneousl}^ 


THE  BEARS  255 

The  unhappy  gipsies  had  journeyed  hither  from  four 
Districts  of  the  Government  with  all  their  household 
effects,  horses,  bears,  etc.  More  than  a  hundred  of  these 
awkward  beasts,  ranging  from  tiny  cubs  to  huge  "  old 
men  "  whose  coats  had  become  grey  or  whitish  from  age, 
had  collected  on  the  town  common.  The  gipsies  awaited 
the  fatal  day  with  terror.  Those  who  had  been  the  first 
to  arrive  had  already  been  encamped  here  more  than  a 
fortnight.  The  Authorities  were  waiting  until  all  should 
arrive,  so  that  the  business  of  killing  the  bears  might  be 
carried  out  in  one  day  and  finished  with  once  and  for  all. 
The  gipsies  had  been  given  five  years'  grace  from  the 
publication  of  the  Order  prohibiting  performing  bears, 
and  now  this  period  had  expired.  They  were  now  to 
appear  at  specified  places  and  themselves  destroy  their 
supporters. 

They  had  completed  their  last  round  through  the 
villages  with  the  familiar  goat  and  big  drum — the  in- 
variable companions  of  the  bears.  For  the  last  time, 
having  espied  them  afar  off  coming  down  from  the  Steppe 
into  the  steep  gully  and  bank  of  the  river,  the  usual  site 
of  Little  Russian  villages,  a  crowd  of  boys  and  girls  had 
run  a  verst  to  meet  them,  returning  triumphantly  with 
them,  a  confused  rabble,  back  to  the  village,  v/here  the 
fun  of  the  fair  had  already  commenced.  And  what  fun 
it  was  !  What  festivities  took  place  !  They  would  halt 
by  the  inn  or  some  bigger  house,  or  if  it  was  an  estate 
before  the  proprietor's  house,  and  begin  their  per- 
formances, cures,  trade,  barter,  fortune-telling,  horse- 
shoeing, and  repairs  of  waggons,  continuing  right  through- 
out the  long  summer  day  until  the  evening,  when  the 
gipsies  would  leave  the  village  for  the  cattle-grazing 
ground,  and,  setting  up  their  tents  or  simply  stretching 
the  canvas  over  the  shafts  of  the  waggons,  would  light 
their  fires  and  prepare  supper,  whilst  far  into  the  night 
an  inquisitive  crowd  would  stand  around  the  encamp- 
ment. 


256  THE  BEARS 

''  Come  along  now  ;  it  is  time  to  go  home,"  my  father 
would  say  to  me,  a  little  boy,  but  no  less  unwilling  to 
leave,  would  wait  in  response  to  my  entreaties  for  "just 
a  little  longer — a  little  longer."  Together  we  would  sit 
in  the  cart,  the  old  horse  Vasia,  with  his  head  turned 
towards  the  fires  and  ears  pricked  towards  the  bears, 
standing  quietly,  save  for  an  occasional  snort.  The  fires 
of  the  camp  cast  dancing  red  lights  and  vague  trembling 
shadows.  A  light  mist  was  rising  from  the  ravine  to  the 
side  of  us,  whilst  behind  the  camp  stretched  the  Steppe. 
The  dark  wings  of  a  windmill  stood  out  as  if  painted 
against  the  sky,  and  behind  it  was  limitless  mysterious 
space  enfolded  in  a  silvery  twilight.  Amidst  the  din  of 
the  encampment  could  be  heard  those  subdued  sounds  so 
characteristic  of  the  Steppe  at  night.  First  from  some 
distant  pond  would  come  the  solemn  reverberating  chorus 
of  frogs,  then  the  regular  but  hurried  chirrup  of  the  grass- 
hopper and  the  cry  of  the  quail.  Again,  faint,  indistin- 
guishable harmonious  sounds  would  be  wafted  to  our 
ears — mayhap  the  sound  of  some  distant  bell  borne  on 
the  breeze,  or  the  voice  of  Nature,  whose  tongue  we  do 
not  understand. 

But  in  the  encampment  all  is  becoming  quiet. 
Gradually  fires  are  extinguished.  The  bears  under  the 
carts  to  which  they  are  tethered  growl  deeply  from  time 
to  time,  as  with  a  jingling  of  their  chains  they  restlessly 
change  their  position.  Their  owners,  too,  are  settling 
down  to  sleep.  One  of  them  in  an  uncultivated  tenor  is 
singing  a  strange  song  in  his  native  language,  unlike  the 
songs  of  Moscow  restaurant  gipsies  and  operatic  singers — 
a  song  characteristic,  wild,  mournful,  strange  to  the  ear. 
No  one  knows  when  it  was  composed,  what  Steppe,  forest 
or  mountain  gave  it  birth.  It  has  remained  a  living 
testimony  of  a  land  forgotten  even  by  those  who  sing  it 
now  under  the  burning  stars  of  a  foreign  sky  and  in  alien 
Steppes. 

"  Come  along,"  says  my  father.     Vasia  bravely  starts. 


THE  BEARS  257 

and  the  droshky  wends  its  way  along  the  winding  road 
below  into  the  valley.  A  thin  dust  rises  half-heartedly 
from  under  the  wheels,  and  then,  as  if  also  overcome 
with  sleep,  falls  back  on  to  the  dewy  grass. 

"  Papa,  does  anyone  know  gipsy  V 

**  The  gipsies  themselves,  of  course,  do,  but  I  have 
never  met  others  who  could  speak  to  them." 

*'  I  should  like  to  learn  it.  I  should  like  to  know  what 
he  was  singing  about.  Papa,  are  they  heathens  ?  Per- 
haps he  was  singing  about  his  gods,  how  they  lived  and 
fought." 

We  arrive  home,  and  as  I  lie  under  the  coverlet  my 
imagination  still  works  and  forms  strange  fancies  in  the 
little  head  already  on  the  pillow. 

Now,  bears  no  longer  wander  through  the  villages,  and 
even  the  gipsies  themselves  seldom  wander.  The  greater 
number  of  them  live  where  they  have  been  told  to  live, 
and  only  occasionally  pay  tribute  to  their  century-old 
instincts,  select  some  common,  stretch  their  smoky  canvas, 
and  live  whole  families  together,  busy  with  the  shoeing 
of  horses,  horse-curing,  and  dealing.  I  have  even  seen 
how  tents  have  given  place  to  hastily  erected  wooden 
shelters.  This  was  in  the  provincial  capital  not  far  from 
the  hospital  and  the  fair-ground,  on  a  piece  of  land  as 
yet  unbuilt  on  and  running  alongside  the  main  road. 
On  this  plot  the  gipsies  had  built  quite  a  little  town. 
Only  the  swarthy  faces,  quick-glancing  eyes,  curly  hair, 
and  dirty  clothes  of  the  men,  with  the  equally  dirty,  gaudy 
rags  of  the  women  and  the  naked  bronzed  children, 
reminded  me  of  the  former  picture  of  a  wandering  gipsy 
encampment.  The  clang  of  iron  was  coming  from  these 
shelters,  and  I  looked  into  one  of  them.  An  old  man  was 
making  horseshoes.  I  looked  at  his  work,  and  saw  that 
this  man  was  no  longer  a  gipsy  blacksmith,  but  an 
ordinary  workman  who  had  taken  some  order,  and  was 
working  as  quickly  as  possible  to  finish  it  so  as  to  take 

17 


258  THE  BEARS 

up  a  new  job.  He  was  forging  shoe  after  shoe,  throwing 
them  one  after  another  into  a  heap  in  a  corner  of  the 
shanty.  He  was  working  with  a  gloomy  concentrated  air, 
and  at  a  great  rate.  This  was  in  the  daytime.  Going 
past  late  that  night,  I  went  up  to  the  shelter,  and  saw 
the  old  man  still  at  the  same  work.  It  was  a  factory. 
And  it  was  strange  to  see  a  gipsy  encampment  almost  in 
the  heart  of  the  town  situated  between  the  Zemstvo 
hospital,  the  bazaar,  and  some  kind  of  enclosed  square 
where  soldiers  were  being  drilled,  and  from  which  came 
the  sound  of  sharp  orders  given  by  the  instructors.  It 
was  alongside  a  road  from  which  the  wind  was  raising 
clouds  of  dust,  smothering  with  it  the  boarded  shelters 
and  the  fires  with  their  pots,  in  which  the  womenkind, 
their  heads  adorned  with  gaudy  handkerchiefs,  were 
boiling  some  sort  of  gruel. 

They  had  gone  through  the  villages  giving  their  shows 
for  the  last  time.  For  the  last  time  the  bears  had  dis- 
played their  histrionic  talents,  had  danced,  wrestled, 
showed  how  little  boys  steal  the  peas,  imitated  the 
mincing  step  of  the  young  girl  and  the  waddling  gait  of 
the  old  woman.  For  the  last  time  they  had  received 
their  reward  in  the  form  of  a  tumbler  of  vodka,  which 
the  bear,  standing  on  its  hind-legs,  would  seize  with  both 
front  paws,  place  against  his  shaggy  muzzle,  and,  throw- 
ing his  head  back,  pour  the  contents  down  his  throat, 
after  which  he  would  lick  his  jaws  and  express  his  satis- 
faction in  a  quiet  rumble  and  strange  deep  sighs.  For 
the  last  time  old  men  and  women  were  coming  to  the 
gipsies  to  be  cured  of  their  ailments  by  the  true  and  tried 
process  of  lying  on  the  ground  under  a  bear,  which  would 
place  his  belly  on  the  patient,  spread  himself  out  on  all 
fours,  and  remain  in  this  position  until  the  gipsies  con- 
sidered the  seance  had  lasted  long  enough.  For  the  last 
time  they  had  entered  huts,  when,  if  the  bear  voluntarily 
entered,  he  was  led  into  the  front  portion  of  the  dwelling, 


THE  BEARS  259 

and  all  sat  there  and  rejoiced  at  his  graciousness  as  a 
good  omen,  but  if,  in  spite  of  all  entreaties  and  caresses 
he  refused  to  cross  the  threshold,  the  occupants  would  be 
sorrowful,  and  their  neighbours  would  shake  their  heads. 
The  greater  part  of  the  gipsies  had  come  from  the 
Western  Districts,  so  that  they  were  obliged  to  descend 
into  Bielsk  by  a  long  hill  nearly  two  versts  long,  and, 
seeing  from  a  distance  the  site  of  their  coming  misfortune 
— this  little  town  with  its  thatched  and  iron  roofs  and 
two  or  three  bell-towers — the  women  commenced  to  wail, 
the  children  to  cry,  and  the  bears  from  S3rmpathy,  or 
perhaps — who  knows  ? — understanding  from  their  masters 
the  bitter  fate  in  store  for  them,  to  roar  in  such  a  way  that 
carts  which  met  them  turned  aside  from  the  road  so  that 
the  bullocks  and  horses  should  not  be  frightened,  whilst 
the  dogs  with  yelps  of  alarm  crawled  under  the  carts, 
taking  refuge  behind  the  grease  and  tar-pots  which  the 
peasants  of  these  parts  fasten  under  the  body  of  their 
carts. 

Several  of  the  old  men  amongst  the  gipsies  had  col- 
lected at  the  entrance  gates  of  the  house  in  which  the 
ispravnik  of  Bielsk  resided.  They  had  decked  themselves 
out  so  as  to  present  a  respectable  appearance  before  the 
Authorities.  All  wore  black  or  dark  blue  under-tunics, 
and  belts  brocaded  with  silver  and  black  enamel-work, 
silk  shirts  having  a  narrow  piping  of  gold  lace  round  the 
collar,  plush  trousers,  high  boots  which  in  some  cases 
were  embroidered  and  slashed  with  a  pattern,  and  the 
majority  wore  astrachan  caps.  This  dress  was  worn  only 
on  the  most  solemn  occasions. 

"  Is  he  asleep  V  inquired  a  tall,  upright  gipsy,  tanned 
from  age,  of  a  gorodovoi  who  came  out  of  the  courtyard 
— one  of  the  eleven  gorodovois  entrusted  with  the  pre- 
servation of  law  and  order  in  the  town  of  Bielsk. 

*'  He  is  getting  up— is  dressing.  He  will  send  for  you 
soon,"  replied  the  gorodovoi. 


26o  THE  BEARS 

The  old  men,  who  up  till  now  had  been  sitting  or 
standing  motionless,  began  to  move  and  to  speak  in  low 
tones  amongst  themselves.  The  senior  of  them  drew 
something  out  of  the  pocket  of  his  baggy  trousers  ;  the 
remainder  all  collected  around  him  and  looked  at  the 
object  which  he  held  in  his  hands. 

**  Nothing  will  come  of  it,"  he  said  at  last.  "  What, 
indeed,  can  he  do  ?  It  is  not  his  doing.  It  is  the  Minister 
at  Petersburg  who  has  given  the  order.  They  are  killing 
the  bears  everywhere." 

"  We  will  try,  Ivan.  Perhaps  he  can  do  something," 
said  another  of  the  old  men. 

'*  Of  course  we  can  try,"  replied  Ivan  dismally.  '*  Only 
he  will  take  our  money  and  will  not  help  in  any  way." 

The  ispravnik  sent  for  them.  They  went  in  a  crowd 
into  the  entrance-hall,  and  when  he  came  out  to  them — 
a  whiskered  man  in  an  unbuttoned  police  uniform,  which 
exposed  a  red  silk  shirt — the  old  men  fell  at  his  feet. 
They  implored  his  assistance,  offered  him  money,  and 
many  of  them  wept. 

"  Your  Worship,"  said  Ivan,  "  will  himself  judge  what 
is  to  happen  to  us.  What  will  become  of  us  ?  We  had 
bears  ;  we  lived  quietly,  insulted  no  one.  Amongst  us 
are  young  men  who  engage  in  evil  work,  but  are  there 
not  horse-thieves  amongst  the  Russians  ?  No  one  was 
insulted  by  our  beasts,  Your  Worship  ;  they  amused  all. 
Now  what  is  going  to  happen  to  us.  Your  Worship  ?  We 
must  go  into  the  world,  and  if  not  thieves,  must  be  vaga- 
bonds. Our  fathers,  our  grandfathers.  Your  Worship,  led 
bears  around.  We  do  not  know  how  to  plough  the  land  ; 
we  are  all  blacksmiths.  It  has  been  hard  work  travelling 
the  wide  world  over  as  blacksmiths  in  search  of  work, 
and  now  work  will  not  come  of  itself  to  us.  Our  young 
men  will  become  horse-thieves — nothing  else  to  do,  Your 
Worship.  Before  God  I  speak  frankly,  concealing  no- 
thing. A  great  evil  has  been  done  us  and  good  people 
by  taking  away  our  bears  from  us.     Perhaps  you  will 


THE  BEARS  261 

help  us.     God  will  reward  you  for  it.      Kind  sir,  help 
us  \" 

The  old  man  fell  on  his  knees  and  prostrated  himself 
at  the  feet  of  the  ispravnik.  The  others  followed  suit. 
The  Major  stood  with  a  gloomy  expression  on  his  face, 
smoothing  his  long  moustaches  with  one  hand  and  the 
other  thrust  into  the  pocket  of  his  dark  blue  overalls. 

The  old  man  pulled  out  a  bulging  pocket-book  and 
offered  it  to  him. 

"  I  will  not  take  it/'  said  the  ispravnik  surlily.  "  I  can 
do  nothing." 

"  But  if  you  will  take  it,  Your  Worship,"  said  the 
crowd,  "  perhaps  something — if  you  would  write." 

**  I  will  not  take  it,"  repeated  the  ispravnik  more 
loudly  than  before.  "  On  no  account.  It  is  useless.  It 
is  the  law.  You  were  given  five  years'  grace.  What  can 
be  done  ?"  And  he  made  a  motion  with  his  hands.  The 
old  men  remained  silent.  The  ispravnik  continued  :  "  I 
know  what  a  misfortune  this  is  for  all  of  you — and  to  us. 
Now  we  shall  have  to  look  out  for  our  horses,  but  what 
can  I  do  ?  You,  old  man,  put  away  your  money.  I  will 
not  take  it.  If  I  have  to  give  you  trouble  through  your 
children  over  horses  do  not  be  angry  with  me,  but  to  take 
money  for  nothing  is  not  one  of  my  customs.  Put  it 
away — put  it  away,  old  man  ;  your  money  will  be  useful 
to  you." 

"  Your  Worship,"  said  Ivan,  still  holding  the  pocket- 
book  in  his  hands,  "  be  so  good  as  to  give  the  order  for 
the  slaughter.  Please  to-morrow  " — the  old  man's  voice 
trembled — "  please  to-morrow  finish  it.  We  are  tired, 
worn  out.  Two  weeks  ago  I  came  here  with  mine.  We 
have  lived  quite " 

"  There  is  still  one  lot  to  come  in,  old  man,"  broke  in 
the  ispravnik.  "  We  must  wait.  It  must  be  done  all  at 
one  time,  and  finished.  The  whole  town  has  gone  off  its 
head  over  you  all." 

*'  They  have  arrived  already,  Your  Worship.     As  we 


262  THE  BEARS 

came  to  Your  Excellency  they  were  coming  down  the  hill. 
Do  us  this  kindness,  sir.     Do  not  torment  us  !" 

"  Well,  if  they  have  arrived,  then  to-morrow  at  ten 
o'clock  I  will  come  to  you.     Have  you  guns  ?" 

**  We  have  guns,  but  not  all  of  us." 

**  All  right,  I  will  tell  the  Colonel  to  lend  you  some 
rifles.  God  be  with  you  !  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry  for 
you  all  !" 

The  old  men  turned  towards  the  door,  but  the  ispravnik 
called  them  back. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  he  said.  "  I  will  tell  you  some- 
thing. Go  to  the  chemist's  shop  next  to  the  church.  Go 
and  say  I  sent  you.  The  chemist  will  buy  all  the  bears'- 
fat  from  you  ;  he  will  make  it  into  pomade.  Perhaps 
he  will  buy  the  skins,  too.  He  will  give  you  a  good  price. 
He  will  not  lose  by  it." 

The  gipsies  thanked  him,  and  in  a  crowd  trooped  off  to 
the  chemist's  shop.  Their  hearts  were  torn  ;  almost  with- 
out bargaining  they  sold  the  mortal  remains  of  their  old 
friends.  Thomas  Thomasovich  bought  all  the  fat  at 
fourteen  kopecks  a  pood,  and  promised  to  speak  about 
the  skins  later  on.  The  young  merchant,  Rogacheff,  who 
happened  to  be  there,  bought  all  the  bear-hams  at  five 
kopecks  a  pound,  hoping  to  make  a  good  deal  out  of  the 
transaction. 

In  the  evening  of  that  day  the  brothers  Isotoff  rushed 
breathless  to  the  house  of  the  brother  of  the  Treasurer. 

"  Olga  Pavlona  !  Olga  Pavlona  !  they  have  settled  it 
for  to-morrow  !  All  have  arrived  !  The  Colonel  has 
already  given  out  the  rifles  !"  they  shouted,  vying  against 
each  other  in  their  haste  to  tell  the  news.  "  Thomas 
Thomasovich  has  bought  all  the  fat  at  fourteen  kopecks 
a  pood,  and  Rogacheff  the  hams,  and " 

"  Stop,  stop,  Leonid !"  interrupted  Olga  Pavlona. 
"  Why  has  Thomas  Thomasovich  bought  the  fat  ?" 

**  For  ointment,  pomade.  It  is  a  splendid  thing  for 
making    the    hair   grow."     And    forthwith    Const  ant  ine 


THE  BEARS  263 

related  an  interesting  anecdote  of  how  a  certain  bald 
gentleman,  through  rubbing  his  head  with  bears'-fat, 
even  grew  hair  on  his  hands. 

*'  And  he  was  forced  to  shave  them  every  two  days," 
added  Leonid ;  and  then  the  two  brothers  burst  out 
laughing. 

Olga  Pavlona  smiled  and  pondered  over  the  news.  She 
had  long  worn  a  chignon,  and  this  information  about 
bears'-grease  interested  her  very  much.  When  that  same 
evening  Thomas  Thomasovich  came  round  to  play  cards 
with  her  husband  and  the  Treasurer,  she  cleverly  suc- 
ceeded in  making  him  promise  to  send  her  some  bears' 
ointment. 

"  Of  course — of  course,  Olga  Pavlona,"  he  had  said, 
'*  and  it  shall  be  scented.  Which  do  you  prefer — 
patchouli  or  ylang-ylang  ?" 

The  day  broke  cloudy  and  cold — a  genuine  September 
day — with  an  occasional  slight  drizzle,  but  this  notwith- 
standing, numbers  of  both  sexes  and  of  all  ages  went  to 
the  Common  to  see  the  interesting  spectacle.  The  town 
was  almost  deserted.  All  the  vehicles  the  town  boasted 
of  —  one  carriage,  several  phaetons,  droshkies,  and  lin- 
eikas — were  engaged  in  taking  out  the  curious.  They  left 
them  at  the  encampment,  and  returned  for  fresh  loads. 
By  ten  o'clock  all  were  already  out  there. 

The  gipsies  had  lost  all  hopes.  There  was  not  much 
noise  in  the  camp.  The  women  were  hiding  in  the  tents 
with  the  little  ones,  so  as  not  to  see  the  massacre,  and 
only  occasionally  a  despairing  wail  was  wrung  from  one 
or  another  of  them.  The  men  were  feverishly  making 
the  last  preparations.  They  had  dragged  the  waggons  to 
the  edge  of  the  camping-ground,  and  had  tied  the  bears 
to  them. 

The  ispravnik,  with  Thomas  Thomasovich,  passed 
along  the  rows  of  condemned.  The  bears  themselves 
were  not  altogether  calm.     The  unusual  surroundings. 


264  THE  BEARS 

the  strange  preparations,  the  enormous  crowd,  the  large 
number  of  bears  collected  together — all  this  had  excited 
them,  and  they  tugged  or  gnawed  at  their  chains,  utter- 
ing occasional  low  growls.  Old  Ivan  stood  near  his  enor- 
mous bear  crooked  with  age.  His  son,  an  elderly  gipsy 
whose  black  hair  was  already  streaked  with  silvery  grey, 
and  his  grandson — that  same  Adonis  whom  Olga  Pavlona 
had  noticed — with  ghastly  faces  and  burning  eyes  were 
hastily  tying  up  the  bear. 

The  ispravnik  came  up  level  with  the  trio. 

"  Well,  old  man,"  said  he,  "  tell  them  to  commence." 

A  wave  of  excited  expectation  passed  over  the  crowd 
of  onlookers,  conversation  redoubled,  but  soon  after  all 
became  quiet,  and  amidst  a  profound  silence  was  heard 
a  low  but  authoritative  voice.     Old  Ivan  was  speaking. 

"  Allow  me,  sir,  to  speak."  Then,  turning  to  his  fellow- 
gipsies,  he  continued  :  "  Comrades,  I  beg  you  to  let  me 
be  the  first  to  finish.  I  am  older  than  any  of  you.  Next 
year  I  shall  have  seen  ninety  years.  I  have  led  bears 
from  my  infancy,  and  in  the  whole  camp  there  is  no  bear 
older  than  mine." 

He  lowered  his  grey  curly  head  on  to  his  chest,  shaking 
it  sorrowfully  from  side  to  side,  and  wiped  his  eyes  with 
his  fist.  Then  he  drew  himself  up,  raised  his  head,  and 
continued  in  a  louder,  firmer  voice  than  before  : 

"  Therefore  I  want  to  be  the  first.  I  thought  I  should 
not  live  to  see  such  grief.  I  thought — that  my  bear,  my 
loved  one,  would  not  live,  but  apparently  Fate  has  willed 
otherwise.  With  my  own  hand  I  must  kill  him,  my 
provider  and  benefactor.  Loose  him  ;  let  him  be  free. 
He  will  not  go  away  ;  he,  as  with  us  old  men,  will  not  flee 
from  death.  Loose  him,  Vasia  !  I  do  not  wish  to  kill 
him  bound,  as  they  kill  cattle.  Do  not  be  afraid,"  said 
he,  turning  to  the  crowd,  which  showed  signs  of  alarm  ; 
"  he  will  not  move." 

The  youth  freed  the  huge  beast,  and  led  him  a  short 
distance  away  from  the  waggon.     The  bear  sat  on  his 


THE  BEARS  265 

haunches,  letting  his  front  paws  hang  loosely,  and  swayed 
from  side  to  side,  breathing  heavily  and  hoarsely.  He 
was  very  old,  his  teeth  were  yellow,  his  coat  had  grown 
a  reddish  colour  and  was  falling  out.  He  gazed  in  a 
friendly  but  melancholy  manner  at  his  old  master  with 
his  one  small  eye.  All  around  was  an  absolute  silence, 
broken  only  by  the  noise  of  the  ramrods  against  the 
barrels  of  the  rifles  as  the  wads  were  pressed  home. 

"  Give  me  the  gun,"  said  the  old  man  firmly. 

His  son  gave  him  the  rifle.  He  took  it,  and,  pressing 
the  muzzle  against  the  old  animal's  breast,  again  began 
to  address  the  bear  : 

"  I  am  going  to  kill  thee  in  a  minute,  Potap.  God 
grant  that  my  old  hand  may  not  tremble,  and  that  the 
bullet  may  find  its  way  into  thy  very  heart.  I  do  not 
want  to  torture  thee.  Thou  dost  not  deserve  such,  my 
old  bear,  my  good,  my  kind  old  mate.  I  caught  thee  a 
little  cub.  One  of  thy  eyes  had  gone,  thy  nose  was 
rotting  from  the  ring,  thou  wert  suffering  from  consump- 
tion. I  tended  thee  as  a  son,  and  pitied  thee,  and  thou 
grew  up  a  big  and  powerful  bear.  There  is  not  such 
another  in  all  the  camps  which  have  collected  here.  And 
thou  grew  up  and  did  not  forget  my  kindness.  Never 
have  I  had  such  a  friend  amongst  men  such  as  thou  hast 
been.  Thou  hast  been  kind  and  quiet  and  clever,  and 
hast  learnt  all.  Never  have  I  seen  a  beast  kinder,  more 
clever  than  thou.  What  would  I  have  been  without 
thee  ?  My  whole  family  have  lived  by  thy  labour.  Thou 
hast  bought  me  two  troikas.  It  was  thou  who  built  me 
a  hut  for  the  winter.  Thou  hast  done  yet  more  for  me. 
Thou  saved  my  son  from  being  a  soldier.  Ours  is  a  large 
family,  but  all,  from  the  oldest  to  the  youngest,  thou  hast 
supported  up  till  now.  And  I  have  loved  thee  greatly, 
and  have  not  beaten  thee  too  much,  and  if  I  have  in  any 
way  offended  against  thee,  forgive  me.  At  thy  feet  I 
bow." 

He  threw  himself  at  the  bear's  feet.    The  beast  quietly 


266  THE  BEARS 

and  plaintively  growled.    The  old  man  lay  on  the  ground, 
his  whole  body  quivering  convulsed  with  sobs. 

**  Shoot,  daddy,"  said  his  son.  "  Do  not  tear  our 
hearts  !" 

Ivan  rose.  The  tears  no  longer  flowed.  He  threw  back 
the  grey  mane  which  had  fallen  over  his  brow,  and  con- 
tinued in  a  steady,  resounding  voice  : 

"  And  now  I  must  kill  thee.  They  have  ordered  me, 
an  old  man,  to  shoot  thee  with  my  own  hands.  Thou 
must  no  longer  live  on  this  earth.  Why  ?  May  God  in 
Heaven  judge  us  !" 

He  cocked  the  trigger,  and  with  a  firm,  steady  hand 
aimed  at  the  beast's  heart  under  the  left  paw.  And  the 
beast  understood.  A  pitiful,  heart-rending  sound  broke 
from  the  bear.  He  stood  up  on  his  hind-legs,  and  raised 
his  fore-paws  as  if  to  hide  his  face  with  them  from  the 
terrifying  gun.  A  wail  went  up  from  the  gipsies  ;  in  the 
crowd  many  were  openly  crying.  With  a  sob  the  old 
man  threw  aside  the  rifle,  and  fell  senseless  to  the  ground. 
His  son  rushed  forward  to  pick  him  up,  and  the  grandson 
seized  the  gun. 

**  It  must  be,"  he  cried  in  a  wild,  hysterical  voice,  with 
blazing  eyes.  **  Enough  !  Shoot,  comrades  ;  let  us  end 
it  !"  And,  running  up  to  the  beast,  he  placed  the  muzzle 
of  the  rifle  against  the  bear's  ear  and  fired.  The  bear  fell 
to  the  ground  a  lifeless  mass.  Only  his  paws  moved  con- 
vulsively, and  his  jaw  dropped  as  if  yawning.  Through- 
out the  encampment  rang  out  shots  and  the  despairing 
cries  of  the  women  and  children.  A  light  breeze  carried 
the  smoke  towards  the  river. 

"  One  has  got  loose — broken  loose  !"  resounded  through 
the  crowd,  and,  like  a  flock  of  frightened  sheep,  all  rushed 
helter-skelter.  The  ispravnik,  fat  Thomas  Thomasovich, 
urchins,  Leonid  and  Constantine,  young  ladies — all  fled, 
panic-stricken,  running  into  the  tents,  against  the  carts 
and  waggons,   screeching  and  falling  over  each  other. 


THE  BEARS  267 

Olga  Pavlona  almost  fainted,  but  fear  gave  her  strength, 
and,  picking  up  her  petticoats,  she  fled  along  the  Common, 
regardless  of  the  disordered  state  of  her  costume  caused 
by  such  hasty  flight.  The  horses,  harnessed  up  in  antici- 
pation of  the  return  of  their  owners  to  town,  commenced 
to  get  out  of  control,  and  bolted  in  various  directions. 
But  the  danger  was  by  no  means  great.  A  still  quite 
young  brown  bear,  maddened  by  fright,  with  a  broken 
chain  hanging  from  his  neck,  was  running  away  with 
astonishing  rapidity.  Everyone  and  everything  made 
way  in  front  of  him,  and,  like  the  wind,  he  fled  straight 
into  the  town.  Some  of  the  gipsies,  rifles  in  hand,  were 
running  after  him.  The  few  pedestrians  who  chanced  to 
be  in  the  streets  pressed  themselves  against  the  walls  if 
too  late  to  take  refuge  in  gateways.  Shutters  were 
bolted,  everything  living  hid,  even  the  dogs  disappeared. 

Past  the  church  went  the  bear,  and  up  the  main  street, 
sometimes  rushing  to  one  or  other  side  as  if  seeking  a 
place  in  which  to  hide,  but  everywhere  was  bolted.  As 
he  flashed  past  the  shops  he  was  met  with  fiendish  cries 
from  the  shopmen  and  boys  who  wished  to  frighten  him. 
He  fled  past  the  bank,  the  school,  and  barracks,  to  the 
other  end  of  the  town,  rushed  along  the  road  leading  to 
the  bank  of  the  river,  and  stopped.  His  pursuers  were 
out-distanced.  But  soon  after  a  crowd,  no  longer  com- 
posed of  gipsies  only,  appeared  from  the  street.  The 
ispravnik  and  the  Colonel  were  in  a  droshky  with  rifles 
in  their  hands.  The  gipsies  and  a  squad  of  soldiers  were 
following  behind  them  at  the  double.  Alongside  the 
droshky  ran  Leonid  and  Const antine. 

"  There  he  is  !  there  he  is  ! "cried  out  the  ispravnik. 
"  The  deuce  take  him  !" 

A  volley  of  shots  followed.  One  of  the  bullets  grazed 
the  bear,  and  in  mortal  fright  he  fled  faster  than  ever. 
A  verst  from  the  town,  up  the  Rokhla,  whither  the  bear 
was  running,  is  a  large  water-mill,  surrounded  on  all  sides 
by  a  small  but  thick  wood.     The  animal  made  for  this 


268  THE  BEARS 

wood,  but,  becoming  confused  in  the  branches  of  the 
river  and  the  dams,  lost  his  way.  A  wide  expanse  of 
water  separated  him  from  the  dense  overgrowth,  where 
he  could  perhaps  find,  if  not  safety,  at  least  respite.  But 
he  decided  not  to  swim.  On  this  side  there  was  a  species 
of  bush  which  grows  thickly,  and  is  only  found  in  Southern 
Russia.  Its  long,  supple,  branchless  stalks  grow  so 
closely  together  that  it  is  impossible  for  anyone  to  make 
his  way  through  it,  but  at  its  roots  there  are  corners  and 
bare  patches  into  which  dogs  can  crawl,  and  as  they  often 
do  this  to  escape  from  the  heat  when  the  weather  is  warm, 
and  widen  the  paths  leading  to  them  by  the  pressure  of  their 
flanks  on  the  bushes,  a  whole  labyrinth  of  passages  is 
formed.  It  was  into  this  undergrowth  the  bear  rushed. 
The  mill  men,  who  were  watching  from  the  upper  story 
of  the  mill,  saw  this,  and  when  the  breathless,  exhausted 
chase  arrived,  the  ispravnik  ordered  the  bear's  hiding- 
place  to  be  surrounded. 

The  unfortunate  animal  forced  its  way  into  the  very 
depth  of  the  bushes.  The  wound  made  by  the  bullet 
was  very  painful.  He  rolled  himself  into  a  ball,  buried 
his  muzzle  in  his  paws,  and  lay  motionless,  deafened  by 
the  noise,  mad  with  fright,  and  deprived  of  the  possibility 
of  defending  himself.  The  soldiers  fired  into  the  bushes, 
hoping  by  chance  to  touch  him  and  make  him  roar,  but 
to  hit,  firing  at  random,  is  difficult.  They  killed  him  late 
that  evening,  having  smoked  him  out  of  his  shelter  by 
setting  fire  to  the  bushes.  Everyone  who  had  a  rifle 
thought  it  his  bounden  duty  to  plant  a  bullet  into  the 
dying  beast,  so  that  when  they  skinned  it  the  skin  was 
useless. 

Not  long  ago  I  chanced  to  be  in  Bielsk.     The  town  has   • 
scarcely  changed.     Only  the  bank  has  smashed,  and  the 
school  is  now  larger  and  of  a  higher  grade.     They  have 
changed  the   ispravnik,   who   was  given  promotion   as 
pristaff  in  a  provincial  capital  for  zealous  service.     The 


THE  BEARS  269 

brothers  Isotoff,  as  of  old,  shout  "  Grand  rond  !"  and 
"  Au  rebours  !"  and  run  about  the  town  relating  the  last 
piece  of  gossip.  The  chemist,  Thomas  Thomasovich,  has 
grown  even  fatter,  and  notwithstanding  that  he  made  a 
good  thing  out  of  the  purchase  of  the  bears'-fat  at  four- 
teen kopecks  per  pound  by  selling  it  at  eighty  kopecks, 
which  brought  him  in  all  no  small  sum,  even  now  speaks 
with  disapproval  of  the  slaughter  of  the  bears. 

"  I  said  then  to  Olga  Pavlona  that  through  it  her 
Adonis  would  become  a  horse-thief  .  .  .  and  what  hap- 
pened ?  Less  than  a  week  afterwards  he  stole  my  pair 
of  greys,  the,  blackguard  !" 

**  And  do  you  know  it  was  he  who  stole  them  ?" 

'*  Who  else  could  it  have  been  ?  Last  year  they  tried 
him  for  horse-stealing  and  robbery.  He  was  sent  to 
penal  servitude." 

"  Ah,  how  sorry  I  was  for  him  !"  said  Olga  Pavlona 
sorrowfully. 

The  poor  lady  has  grown  decidedly  older  these  last 
years,  and  notwithstanding  the  fact,  according  to  Thomas 
Thomasovich,  who  told  me  in  confidence,  that  she  has 
smeared  her  head  with  four  pounds  of  bears'-grease,  her 
hair  has  not  only  not  become  thicker,  but  even  grown 
thinner.  But  her  chignon  hides  it  so  well  that  it  is 
absolutely  unnoticeable. 


XIV 

THE  FROG  WHO  TRAVELLED 

Once  upon  a  time  there  lived  in  this  world  a  frog.  She 
used  to  sit  in  a  swamp  and  catch  mosquitoes  and  midges, 
and  in  the  spring  used  to  croak  loudly  in  company  with 
her  friends.  And  but  for  an  event  which  occurred  she 
would  have  lived  happily  her  whole  life  through — -pro- 
vided, of  course,  a  stork  had  not  eaten  her. 

One  day  she  was  sitting  on  a  crooked  branch  which 
stuck  out  of  the  water,  and  was  revelling  in  a  warm,  slight 
drizzling  rain. 

"  Ah  me,  what  beautiful  damp  weather  to-day  !"  she 
thought.     "  What  a  delight  it  is  to  live  !" 

The  drizzle  damped  her  striped  polished  back,  and  the 
raindrops  trickled  down  under  her  belly  behind  her  paws, 
which  was  extraordinarily  pleasant — so  pleasant  that  she 
almost  gave  a  croak.  But  luckily  she  remembered  that 
it  was  already  autumn,  and  that  frogs  don't  croak  in  the 
autumn — the  spring  is  the  time  for  that — and  had  she 
croaked  she  might  have  lost  her  ''  frogly  "  dignity.  So 
she  kept  quiet  and  continued  to  take  her  ease. 

Suddenly  a  thin,  intermittent,  whistling  noise  resounded 
in  the  air. 

There  is  a  species  of  duck  which,  when  it  flies,  makes 
a  singing,  or  rather  a  whistling,  sound  with  its  wings  as 
they  cleave  the  air.  "  Phew,  phew,  phew,  phew  !"  sounds 
through  the  air  when  a  covey  of  such  ducks  fly  high 
above  us,  although  the  birds  themselves  are  invisible,  so 

270 


THE  FROG  WHO  TRAVELLED  271 

high  do  they  fly.  On  this  occasion  the  ducks,  having 
described  an  enormous  semicircle,  swooped  down  and 
settled  in  the  very  same  swamp  in  which  the  frog  lived. 

"  Quack,  quack  !"  said  one  of  them.  "  We  have  still 
a  long  way  to  fly  ;  we  must  have  something  to  eat." 

And  the  frog  instantly  hid  herself,  and,  although  she 
knew  that  the  ducks  would  not  eat  her — a  big  and  fat 
frog — she  all  the  same  dived  under  the  log  in  case  of 
accidents.  However,  having  thought  it  over,  she  decided 
to  stick  her  head  with  its  protruding  eyes  out  of  the 
w^ater.  She  was  very  curious  to  know  to  where  the  ducks 
were  flying. 

"  Quack,  quack  !"  said  another  duck.  "  It  is  already 
quite  cold.  Let  us  get  away  as  quickly  as  possible  to 
the  South." 

And  all  the  ducks  began  to  quack  loudly  in  token  of 
their  approval. 

*'  Mesdames  ducks,"  said  the  frog,  plucking  up  her 
courage,  "  what  is  the  *  South  '  to  which  you  are  flying  ? 
Please  excuse  me  for  disturbing  you." 

The  ducks  crowded  round  the  frog.  At  first  they 
evinced  a  decided  inclination  to  eat  her,  but  each  on 
reflection  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  too  big 
to  be  swallowed.  And  then  they  all  began  to  quack  and 
flap  their  wings. 

**  It  is  very  nice  in  the  South  !  It  is  warm  there  now  ! 
And  what  lovely  warm  swamps  there  are  there  !  What 
worms  !     It  is  nice  in  the  South  !" 

They  quacked  to  such  a  degree  that  they  nearly 
deafened  the  frog.  She  could  scarcely  prevail  on  them 
to  be  quiet,  and  begged  one  of  them,  who  seemed  to  her 
the  fattest  and  most  intelligent  of  them  all,  to  explain 
to  her  what  was  the  "  South."  And  when  the  duck  told 
her  all  about  the  South,  the  frog  went  into  ecstasies,  but; 
nevertheless,  at  the  end  of  the  description,  because  she 
was  a  cautious  frog,  she  asked  him  : 

"  And  are  there  midges  and  mosquitoes  there  ?" 


272  THE  FROG  WHO  TRAVELLED 

"  Oh,  I  should  just  say  so — clouds  of  them  !"  replied 
the  duck  . 

*'  Croak  !"  said  the  frog,  and  immediately  turned  round 
to  see  if  there  was  any  friend  near  who  could  have  heard 
her  and  scolded  her  for  croaking  in  the  autumn.  She  really 
could  not  restrain  herself  from  giving  at  least  one  little 
croak.     **  Take  me  with  you  !" 

"  You  astonish  me  !"  exclaimed  the  duck.  "  How  can 
we  take  you  ?     You  have  no  wings  !" 

"  When  do  you  fl}^  ?"  asked  the  frog. 

"  Soon,  soon !"  cried  out  all  the  ducks.  ''  Quack, 
quack,  quack !  Here  it  is  cold  !  To  the  South  !  to  the 
South  !" 

"  Allow  me  to  think  only  five  minutes,"  said  the  frog. 
"  I  will  come  back  directly.  I  am  sure  to  think  of  some- 
thing good." 

And  she  flopped  from  the  branch,  on  to  which  she  had 
again  clambered,  into  the  water,  dived  into  the  mud,  and 
absolutely  buried  herself  in  it,  so  that  no  extraneous 
matter  should  distract  her  thoughts.  Five  minutes 
passed,  and  the  ducks  had  all  collected  to  fly,  when 
suddenly  from  out  of  the  water  near  the  branch  on  which 
the  frog  had  sat  her  mouth  appeared,  and  it  wore  an 
expression  of  delight  such  as  only  a  frog's  mouth  can 
assume. 

**  I  have  thought  it  out  ;  I  have  found  a  way  !"  she 
said.  "  Let  two  of  you,  one  at  each  end,  take  a  twig  in 
your  beaks,  and  I  will  hang  on  to  it  in  the  middle.  You 
will  fly  and  I  will  travel.  Only,  whatever  happens,  you 
must  not  quack  nor  I  croak — and  then  all  will  be  superb." 

Now,  although,  goodness  knows,  it  is  by  no  means  a 
joke  to  carry  a  frog  three  thousand  versts,  keeping  silent 
all  the  time,  still  the  ingenuity  of  her  plan  sent  the  ducks 
into  such  a  delirium  of  delight  that  they  unanimously 
resolved  to  take  the  frog  with  them.  They  agreed  to 
relieve  each  other  every  two  hours,  and  as  there  were  as 
many  and  many  ducks  as  could  be,  and  only  one  frog, 


THE  FROG  WHO  TRAVELLED  273 

no  duck's  turn  to  carry  the  frog  would  come  very  often. 
They  found  a  good  strong  twig,  two  ducks  took  it  in  their 
beaks,  the  frog  caught  hold  in  the  middle  with  her  mouth, 
and  the  whole  covey  rose  into  the  air.  The  terrific  height 
to  which  they  flew  up  took  the  frog's  breath  away. 
Besides  which,  the  ducks  did  not  fly  evenly,  and  kept 
giving  the  twig  jerks.  The  poor  frog  swung  in  the  air 
like  a  paper  "  tumbling  tommy,"  and  hung  on  by  her 
jaw  with  all  her  might,  so  as  not  to  be  thrown  ofi  and 
flop  to  the  ground.  However,  she  soon  became  accus- 
tomed to  her  surroundings,  and  even  began  to  look 
around  her.  Beneath  her  fields,  meadows,  rivers,  and 
mountains  passed  by  in  rapid  succession,  but  it  was  very 
difficult  for  her  to  take  stock  of  them,  because,  hanging 
as  she  was  from  the  twig,  she  could  only  see  backwards 
and  towards  the  sky  ;  nevertheless,  she  managed  to  see 
something,  and  was  very  pleased  and  proud  with  herself. 

"  What  a  splendid  idea  it  was  of  mine  !"  she  thought 
to  herself. 

And  as  the  rest  of  the  ducks  flew  along  behind  the 
first  pair  which  carried  her  they  cried  out  to  her  and 
praised  her. 

**  Our  frog  has  an  astonishingly  clever  head,"  they 
said.  **  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  anything  like  it  even 
amongst  us  ducks." 

The  frog  could  scarcely  restrain  herself  from  thanking 
them,  but,  remembering  that  if  she  opened  her  mouth  she 
would  fall  from  a  terrific  height,  she  closed  her  jaw  still 
tighter,  and  decided  to  resist  the  temptation.  She  swung 
in  this  manner  for  a  whole  day.  The  ducks  who  were 
carrying  her  relieved  each  other  on  the  wing,  cleverly 
catching  hold  of  the  twig.  This  was  most  terrifying. 
Several  times  the  frog  almost  croaked  from  fright,  but 
it  was  necessary  to  have  plenty  of  presence  of  mind, 
which  she  possessed.  In  the  evening  the  whole  company 
halted  in  a  swamp.  At  dawn  the  ducks  with  the  frog 
continued  their  journey,  but  this  time  their  passenger,  in 


274  THE  FRCG  WHO  TRAVELLED 

order  to  see  the  better  what  was  happening,  fastened  on 
with  her  back  and  head  to  the  front.  The  ducks  fiew 
over  mown  fields,  woods  turning  yellow,  and  over  villages 
full  of  corn-stacks.  They  could  hear  the  people  talking, 
and  the  noise  of  the  machines  with  which  they  were 
threshing  the  rye.  The  villagers  looked  at  the  ducks, 
and,  noticing  something  strange  in  their  midst,  pointed 
to  it.  And  the  frog  longed  to  fly  lower  down,  so  as  to 
show  herself  and  to  hear  what  they  were  saying  about 
her.     At  the  next  halt  she  said  : 

"Is  it  possible  for  us  to  fiy  not  quite  so  high  ?  It 
makes  my  head  swim,  and  I  am  afraid  of  falling  if  I 
should  suddenly  feel  bad." 

The  kind  ducks  promised  her  to  fly  lower,  and  the 
following  day  they  travelled  so  low  that  they  could  hear 
what  was  said. 

*'  Look,  look  !"  cried  the  children  in  one  of  the  villages  ; 
"  the  ducks  are  carrying  a  frog  \" 

The  frog  heard  this,  and  her  heart  jumped. 
**  Look,  look  \"  "  grown-ups  "  cried  in  another  village. 
"  That's  an  extraordinary  thing  !" 

"  Do  they  know  that  it  was  I  who  thought  of  this,  and 
not  the  ducks  ?"  the  frog  wondered  to  herself. 

"  Look,  look  !"  they  cried  in  a  third  village.     '*  What 
a  wonder  !     And  who  thought  of  such  a  clever  dodge  ?" 
Thereupon  the  frog  could  stand  it  no  longer,   and, 
throwing  caution  to  the  winds,  cried  out  at  the  top  of  her 
voice  : 

"  It  was  I— I  !" 

And  with  this  cry  she  went  tumbling  over  and  over  to 
the  ground.  The  ducks  quacked  loudly,  and  one  of  them 
tried  to  catch  hold  of  their  unfortunate  fellow-traveller 
as  she  was  falling,  but  missed  her.  The  frog,  frantically 
waving  all  four  paws,  quickly  fell  to  the  ground,  but  as 
the  ducks  were  flying  very  fast,  she  did  not  fall  just  at 
the  spot  above  which  she  had  cried  out,  and  where  there 
was  a  hard  road,  but  much  farther  on,  which  was  ex- 


THE  FROG  WHO  TRAVELLED  275 

tremely  lucky  for  her,  because  she  flopped  into  a  muddy 
pond  on  the  edge  of  the  village. 

She  quickly  appeared  from  out  of  the  water,  and  with 
all  her  might  began  to  cry  out  : 

''It  was  I — it  was  I  who  thought  of  it  !" 

But  there  was  no  one  near  her.  The  local  frogs, 
frightened  by  the  unexpected  splash,  had  all  disappeared 
under  water.  When  they  began  to  reappear  they  gazed 
at  the  new  arrival  with  astonishment. 

And  she  related  to  them  a  wonderful  story  of  how  she 
had  thought  all  her  life  about  the  matter,  and  had-  at 
last  invented  a  new,  unusual  method  of  travelling  by 
ducks.  How  she  had  her  own  special  ducks  which  carried 
her  where  she  wanted  to  go.  How  she  had  been  in  the 
beautiful  South,  where  it  was  so  nice,  where  there  are  such 
lovely  warm  swamps,  and  such  quantities  of  midges,  and 
every  other  kind  of  edible  insects. 

"  I  have  come  here  to  see  how  you  live,"  she  said.  "  I 
shall  stay  with  you  until  the  spring,  until  my  ducks, 
which  I  have  let  go,  return." 

But  the  ducks  never  returned.  They  thought  that  the 
frog  had  been  smashed  to  pieces  by  her  fall,  and  were 
very  sorry  for  her. 


XV 

A  VERY  SHORT  ROMANCE 

Frost  and  cold.  January  is  approaching,  and  is  making 
its  coming  known  to  ever}^  unfortunate  being — dvorniks 
and  gorodovois — unable  to  hide  their  noses  in  some  warm 
place.  It  is  also  letting  me  know.  Not  because  I  have 
been  unable  to  find  a  warm  corner,  but  through  a  whim 
of  mine. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  why  am  I  stumping  along  this 
deserted  quay  ?  The  lamps  are  shining  brightly,  although 
the  wind  keeps  forcing  its  way  inside  them  and  making 
the  gas-jets  dance.  Their  bright  light  makes  the  dark 
mass  of  the  sumptuous  Palace,  and  especially  its  windows, 
look  all  the  more  gloomy.  The  wind  is  moaning  and 
howling  across  the  icy  waste  of  the  Neva.  Through  the 
gusts  of  wind  comes  the  sound  of  the  chimes  of  the 
Fortress  Cathedral,  and  every  stroke  of  the  mournful 
bells  keeps  time  with  the  tap  of  my  wooden  leg  on  the 
ice-covered  granite  slabs  of  the  pavement  and  with  the 
beating  of  my  aching  heart  against  the  walls  of  its  narrow 
cell. 

I  must  present  myself  to  the  reader.  I  am  a  young 
man  with  a  wooden  leg.  Perhaps  you  will  say  I  am 
imitating  Dickens.  You  remember  Silas  Wegg,  the  literary 
gent  with  the  wooden  leg  (in  "  Our  Mutual  Friend  ")  ? 
No,  I  am  not  copying  him.  I  really  am  a  young  man 
with  a  wooden  leg.     Only  I  have  become  so  recently. 

"  Ding-dong,  ding-dong  !"     The  chimes  again  ring  out 

276 


A  VERY  SHORT  ROMANCE  277 

their  doleful  chant,  and  then  one  o'clock  strikes.  Only 
one  o'clock  !  Still  seven  hours  before  daylight,  then  this 
black  winter  night,  with  its  cold,  wet  snow,  will  give 
place  to  a  grey  day.  Shall  I  go  home  ?  I  do  not  know. 
It  is  absolutely  all  the  same  to  me.  I  have  no  need  of 
sleep. 

In  the  spring,  also,  I  loved  to  spend  whole  nights  walk- 
ing up  and  down  this  quay.  Ah,  what  nights  those  are  ! 
What  can  surpass  them  ?  They  are  not  the  scented  nights 
of  the  South,  with  their  strange  black  heaven  and  big 
stars  with  their  pursuing  gaze.  Here  all  is  light  and 
bright.  The  sky  with  its  varied  hues  is  coldly  beautiful, 
and  throughout  the  night  remains  gilded  north  and  east 
with  the  rays  of  a  scarce-setting  sun.  The  air  is  fresh 
and  keen.  The  limpid  Neva  rolls  onwards  proudly,  its 
dancing  wavelets  contentedly  lapping  against  the  stone- 
work of  the  quay.  I  am  standing  on  this  quay,  and  on 
my  arm  a  young  girl  is  leaning.     And  this  girl 

Ah,  good  people  !  why  have  I  begun  to  tell  you  of  my 
wounds  ?  But  such  is  the  stupidity  of  the  poor  human 
heart.  When  it  is  stricken  it  dreams  of  seeking  relief 
from  each  it  meets,  and  does  not  find  it.  This  is,  how- 
ever, quite  intelligible.  Who  is  in  want  of  an  old  un- 
darned  stocking  ?  Everyone  endeavours  to  throw  it 
away — the  farther  the  better. 

My  heart  was  in  no  need  of  mending  when  in  the  spring 
of  this  year  I  met  Masha — the  best  of  all  Mashas  in  this 
world.  I  met  her  on  this  same  quay,  which  was  not, 
however,  as  cold  as  it  is  now.  And  I  had  a  real  leg 
instead  of  this  disgusting  wooden  stump — a  real  well-made 
leg,  like  the  one  that  I  have  left  me.  Taking  me  all  round, 
I  was  a  well-made  fellow,  and,  of  course,  did  not  walk,  as 
now,  like  some  bandy-legged  fool.  Not  a  nice  word  to 
use,  but  at  present  I  cannot  pick  my  words.  And  so  I 
met  her.  It  happened  quite  simply.  I  was  walking 
along  ;  she  was  walking  along.  (I  am  not  a  Lothario,  or 
rather  was  not,  because  now  I  have  a  wooden  stump.) 


278  A  VERY  SHORT  ROMANCE 

I  do  not  know  what  impelled  me  to  do  so,  but  I  spoke. 
First  of  all  I,  of  course,  told  her  I  was  not  one  of  those 
sort  of  blackguards,  etc.,  then  I  declared  my  intentions 
were  honourable,  and  so  on.  My  face  (on  which  there  is 
now  a  deep  furrow  above  the  bridge  of  my  nose  (a  very 
gloomy-looking  furrow)  calmed  her  fears,  and  we  walked 
together  as  far  as  her  home.  Sue  was  returning  from  her 
old  grandmother,  to  whom  she  used  to  read.  The  poor 
old  lady  was  blind. 

Now  the  grandmother  is  dead.  This  year  many  have 
died,  and  not  only  old  grandmothers.  I  could  have  died 
very  easily,  I  assure  you.  But  I  have  not.  Oh,  how 
much  trouble  can  a  man  stand  ?  You  do  not  know,  and 
neither  do  I. 

Very  well,  Masha  ordered  me  to  be  a  hero,  and  there- 
fore I  had  to  join  the  army. 

The  times  of  the  Crusades  have  passed,  and  knights  are 
extinct ;  but  if  she  whom  you  love  were  to  say  to  you, 
"  I  am  this  ring,"  and  throw  it  into  a  fire,  even  were  it 
the  greatest  possible  conflagration,  would  you  not  throw 
yourself  into  the  flames  to  get  that  ring  ?  Oh,  what  a 
quaint  fellow  !  "  Of  course  not,"  you  reply — "  of  course 
not.  I  should  go  to  the  best  jeweller  and  buy  her  another 
ring  ten  times  more  valuable."  And  she  would  say  : 
"  This  is  not  the  same  ring,  but  is  it  an  expensive  ring  ? 
I  will  never  believe  you."  However,  I  am  not  of  the 
same  opinion  as  you,  gentle  reader.  Perhaps  the  woman 
who  would  appeal  to  you  would  act  in  that  way.  You, 
no  doubt,  are  the  proud  possessor  of  many  shares  and 
stocks,  and  can  gratify  any  wish.  You  perhaps  even 
subscribe  to  a  foreign  journal  for  your  amusement.  Per- 
haps you  remember  as  a  child  having  watched  a  moth 
which  had  flown  into  a  flame  ?  That  also  amused  you  in 
those  days.  The  moth  lay  on  its  back  quivering  and 
fluttering  its  little  striped  wings.  This  interested  you  ; 
then,  when  it  no  longer  amused  you,  you  squashed  it  with 


A  VERY  SHORT  ROMANCE  279 

your  linger,  and  the  unhappy  little  thing  ceased  to  suffer. 
Ah,  kind  reader,  if  only  you  would  squash  me  with 
your  finger,  so  that  I  might  cease  to  suffer  ! 

She  was  a  strange  girl.  When  war  was  declared  she 
went  about  dreamily,  and  without  speaking,  for  several 
days,  and  nothing  I  did  would  amuse  her.  "  Listen," 
she  said  to  me  at  length,  "  you  are  an  honourable  man  ?" 

"  I  may  admit  that,"  I  replied. 

"  Honourable  people  prove  their  words  by  deeds.  You 
were  for  the  war  ]  you  must  fight."  She  puckered  her 
brows  and  warmly  pressed  her  little  hand  into  mine. 

I  looked  at  Masha,  and  said  seriously  :  "  Yes." 

*'  When  you  return  I  will  be  your  wife,"  she  said  to 
me  on  the  station  platform.  "  Come  back  !"  Tears 
dimmed  my  sight,  and  I  almost  sobbed  aloud.  But  I 
kept  my  self-control,  and  found  strength  to  answer  Masha  : 

"  Remember,  Masha,  honourable  people " 

"  Prove  their  words  by  deeds,"  said  she,  finishing  the 
sentence.  I  clasped  her  to  my  heart  for  the  last  time, 
and  jumped  into  the  railway-carriage. 

I  went  to  fight  for  Masha' s  sake,  but  I  did  my  duty  by 
my  country  honourably.  I  marched  bravely  through 
Roumania  amidst  rain  and  dust,  heat  and  cold.  Self- 
sacrificingly  I  gnawed  the  ration  biscuit.  When  we  first 
met  the  Turks  I  did  not  fail,  but  won  the  "  Cross  "  and 
promotion  as  N.C.O.  In  the  second  action  something 
happened,  and  I  fell  to  the  ground.  Groans,  mist ;  a 
doctor  in  white  apron  with  blood-covered  hands  ;  hos- 
pital nurses  ;  my  leg,  with  its  birth-mark,  taken  off  below 
the  knee.  All  this  happened  as  in  a  dream.  Then  the 
ambulance-train,  with  its  comfortable  cots  and  dainty 
lady  in  charge,  brought  me  to  St.  Petersburg. 

When  you  leave  a  town  in  the  usual  and  proper  way 
with  two  legs,  and  return  to  it  with  one  leg  and  a  stump 
instead  of  the  other — believe  me,  it  costs  something. 

They  placed  me  in  a  hospital.  This  was  in  July.  I 
begged  them  to  find  out  the  address  of  Mary  Ivanovna 


28o  A  VERY  SHORT  ROMANCE 

and  the  good-natured  attendant  brought  it  me. 


I  wrote,  then  again,  and  a  third  time — but  no  answer. 
My  kind  reader,  I  have  told  you  all  this,  and,  of  course, 
you  do  not  believe  me.  What  an  unlikely  story !  you  say. 
A  certain  knight  and  a  certain  crafty  traitress — the  old, 
old  story.  My  intelligent  reader,  believe  me  there  are 
many  such  knights  besides  myself. 

Eventually  they  fitted  me  with  a  wooden  leg,  and  I 
was  able  now  to  find  out  for  myself  the  cause  of  Masha's 
silence.  I  drove  to  her  house,  and  then  stumped  up  the 
long  staircase.  How  I  had  flown  up  it  eight  months  ago  ! 
At  last  the  door.  I  ring  with  a  sinking  at  my  heart.  I 
hear  footsteps,  and  the  old  servant  opens  the  door  to  me. 
Without  listening  to  her  joyous  exclamations  I  rush  (if  it 
is  possible  to  rush  when  your  legs  are  of  different  kinds) 
into  the  drawing-room.     Masha  ! 

She  is  not  alone,  but  is  sitting  with  a  very  nice  young 
fellow,  a  distant  relative,  who  was  at  the  University  with 
me,  and  was  expecting  to  obtain  a  good  appointment 
eventually.  Both  congratulated  me  very  tenderly  (prob- 
ably owing  to  my  wooden  leg),  but  both  were  somewhat 
confused.     Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  understood  all. 

I  did  not  wish  to  stand  in  the  way  of  their  happiness. 
The  intelligent  reader  smiles  sceptically.  Surely  you  do 
not  want  me  to  believe  all  this  ?  Who  would  gratuitously 
surrender  the  girl  he  loves  to  any  good-for-nothing 
fellow  ? 

First,  he  is  not  a  good-for-nothing  fellow  ;  and,  second, 
— well,  I  would  tell  you  that  second  only  you  would  not 
understand,  because  you  do  not  believe  that  virtue  and 
justice  exist  nowadays.  You  would  prefer  the  unhappi- 
ness  of  three  persons  to  the  misery  of  one.  You  do  not 
believe  me,  intelligent  reader  ?     Then  don't  ! 

The  wedding  took  place  two  days  ago,  and  I  was  best 
man.  I  performed  my  duties  at  the  ceremony  with 
dignity,  and  gave  to  another  what  I  most  prize  in  this 


A  VERY  SHORT  ROMANCE  281 

world.  Masha  from  time  to  time  glanced  timidly  at  me, 
and  her  husband  regarded  me  with  a  perplexed  air  of 
bewilderment.  The  wedding  was  a  merry  one.  Cham- 
pagne flowed,  her  German  relatives  cried  "  Hoch  !"  and 
called  me  "  der  Russische  Held."  Masha  and  her  husband 
were  Lutherans. 

"  Aha  !"  exclaims  the  intelligent  reader  ;  *'  see  how  you 
have  betrayed  yourself,  sir  hero  !  Why  must  you  make 
use  of  the  Lutheran  religion  ?  Simply  because  there  are 
no  orthodox  marriages  in  December  !  That  is  the  whole 
reason  and  explanation,  and  the  whole  narrative  is  pure 
invention." 

Think  what  you  like,  dear  reader.  It  is  a  matter  of 
absolute  indifference  to  me.  But  were  you  to  come  v/ith 
me  on  these  December  nights  along  the  Palace  Qua}/,  and 
listen  to  the  storm  and  chimes,  and  the  tap  of  my  wooden 
leg  on  the  pavement ;  if  you  could  feel  what  effect  these 
winter  nights  have  on  me  ;  if  you  could  believe 

"  Ding-dong,  ding-dong  !"  The  chimes  are  sounding 
four  o'clock.  It  is  time  to  go  home,  and  throw  myself  on 
to  my  lonely  bed  and  sleep. 

*'  Au  re  voir,"  reader  ! 


XVI 

FROM  THE  REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE 
IVANOFF 

I 
On  the  4th  of  May,  1877,  I  arrived  at  Kishineff,  and  half 
an  hour  later  had  learnt  that  the  56th  Division  of  Infantry 
was  passing  through  the  town.  As  I  had  come  with  the 
view  of  enlisting  in  some  regiment  and  going  to  the  war, 
I  found  myself,  on  the  7th  of  May,  at  4  a.m.,  standing  in 
the  street  amongst  the  grey  ranks  which  had  been  formed 
up  before  the  quarters  of  the  Colonel  of  the  222nd  (Staro- 
bielsky)  Regiment.  I  was  in  a  grey  overcoat  with  red 
shoulder-straps  and  dark  blue  facings  and  a  kepi,  around 
which  was  a  dark  blue  band.  On  my  back  was  a  knap- 
sack, at  my  waist  were  cartridge-pouches,  and  I  was 
holding  a  heavy  Krinkoff  rifle. 

The  band  struck  up  as  they  brought  out  the  colours 
from  the  Colonel's  quarters.  Words  of  command  rang 
out  and  the  regiment  presented  arms.  Then  followed  a 
fearful  row.  The  Colonel  gave  a  command  which  was 
taken  up  by  the  battalion,  company,  and,  finally,  section 
commanders,  and  as  the  result  of  all  this  shouting  a 
confused  and,  to  me,  absolutely  incomprehensible  move- 
ment of  grey  overcoats  took  place,  which  ended  in  the 
regiment  drawing  itself  out  into  a  long  column  and 
marching  off  with  measured  tread  to  the  sound  of  the 
regimental  band  as  it  thundered  out  a  quick  step.  I  too 
stepped  out,  trying  to  keep  my  dressing  and  to  keep  in 
step  with  my  neighbour.     My  knapsack  pulled  me  back- 

282 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF      283 

wards,  the  heavy  ammunition  pouches  pulled  me  forward  ; 
my  rifle  kept  jumping  off  my  shoulder,  and  the  grey  collar 
of  my  overcoat  rubbed  my  neck.  But  in  spite  of  all  these 
little  discomforts,  the  music,  the  rhythmic,  ponderous 
movement  of  the  column  bristling  with  bayonets,  the 
freshness  of  early  morning,  and  the  sight  of  the  sunburnt 
and  stem  faces,  all  combined  to  inspire  a  feeling  of  calm 
determination. 

Notwithstanding  the  earliness  of  the  hour,  people 
flocked  to  the  courtyard  gates  of  the  houses,  and  half- 
dressed  figures  gazed  at  us  from  windows.  We  marched 
through  the  long  straight  street  past  the  bazaar,  where 
the  Moldavians  were  already  commencing  to  arrive  in 
their  ox-carts.  The  street  wound  up  the  hill  and  stopped 
at  the  town  cemetery.  The  morning  became  overcast, 
and  a  cold  drizzle  commenced.  The  trees  of  the  cemetery 
were  discernible  through  the  mist,  and  glimpses  of  tomb- 
stones could  be  caught  above  its  gates  and  walls.  As  we 
skirted  the  cemetery,  leaving  it  to  our  right,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  it  gazed  perplexedly  at  us  through  the  mist, 
asking  :  **  Why  are  you  going  thousands  and  thousands 
of  versts  to  die  on  foreign  fields  when  it  is  possible  to  die 
here — to  die  peacefully,  and  lie  beneath  my  wooden 
crosses  and  stone  slabs  ?     Stop  here  !" 

But  we  did  not  stop.  An  unknown,  mysterious  force 
was  drawing  us — the  strongest  force  in  human  life.  Each 
of  us,  taken  separately,  would  have  gone  home,  but  the 
whole  mass  went  forward  in  obedience  to  discipline,  and 
not  from  any  recognition  of  the  justice  of  the  cause,  nor 
from  any  feeling  of  hatred  towards  an  unknown  enemy  ; 
not  from  any  fear  of  punishment,  but  moved  solely  by 
that  hidden  and  unconscious  something  which  will,  for 
many  a  long  day  yet,  lead  humanity  to  sanguinary 
slaughter — the  most  potent  cause  of  every  description  of 
human  ill  and  suffering. 

A  wide  and  deep  valley  which  stretched  away  beyond 
sight  into  the  mist  opened  out  behind  the  cemetery. 


284     REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

The  rain  became  heavier.  Somewhere  far,  far  away,  the 
clouds  had  made  way  for  a  ray  of  sunshine  which  caused 
the  slanting  and  perpendicular  strips  of  rain  to  glisten 
like  silver.  Through  the  mist  which  rolled  along  the 
green  slopes  of  the  valley  could  be  distinguished  long 
columns  of  troops  ahead  of  us.  Now  and  then  there  was 
the  gleam  of  bayonets.  And  the  guns,  as  they  came  into 
the  sunlight,  shone  like  some  bright  star,  only  to  vanish 
in  the  course  of  a  few  moments.  Sometimes  the  clouds 
came  together  ;  it  became  darker  and  the  rain  more  fre- 
quent. An  hour  after  our  start  I  felt  a  little  stream  of 
cold  water  begin  to  trickle  down  my  back. 
The  first  stage  was  not  a  long  one,  the  distance  from 

Kishineff  to  the  village  of  G being  in  all  only  eighteen 

versts.  However,  not  being  accustomed  to  carry  a  w^eight 
of  20  to  35  pounds,  I  was  at  first  unable  even  to  eat  when 
we  at  length  reached  the  cottage  told  off  to  us.  I  leant 
against  the  wall,  resting  on  my  knapsack,  and  stood  like 
this  for  some  ten  minutes  fully  equipped  with  my  rifle  in 
my  hand.  One  of  the  soldiers  going  to  the  kitchen  for  his 
dinner  took  pity  on  me  and  took  my  canteen  with  him.. 
But  on  his  return  he  found  me  sound  asleep.  I  slept  until 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  I  was  awakened  by  the 
insufferably  harsh  sounds  of  a  bugle  sounding  the 
"  assembly/'  and  five  minutes  later  I  was  again  plodding 
along  the  muddy,  sticky  road  under  a  fine  drizzling  rain. 
Before  me  jogged  a  grey  back,  on  which  was  strapped  a 
brown  calfskin  knapsack  and  an  iron  canteen,  which 
rattled  incessantly.  The  grey  back  had  a  rifle  on  one 
shoulder.  On  either  side  and  behind  me  were  similar 
grey  figures.  For  the  first  few  days  I  could  not  dis- 
tinguish them  one  from  the  other.  The  222nd  Infantry 
Regiment  of  the  Line  which  I  had  joined  consisted  for 
the  most  part  of  peasants  from  the  Governments  of 
Vyatka  and  Kostroma.  They  all  had  broad  faces,  now 
blue  with  cold,  prominent  cheek-bones,  and  small  grey 
eyes.     Most  of  them  were  fair,  with  light-coloured  hair 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF    285 

and  beards.  Although  I  knew  the  names  of  several,  I 
could  not  pick  out  their  owners.  A  fortnight  later  I  was 
unable  to  understand  how  I  could  ever  have  mixed  up 
my  tw^o  comrades,  the  one  marching  alongside  me,  and 
the  other  the  possessor  of  the  grey  back  which  was  con- 
stantly before  my  eyes.  At  first  I  had  called  them 
Feodoroff  and  Jitkoff  indifferently,  continually  making 
mistakes,  although  they  did  not  in  the  least  resemble  each 
other.  Feodoroff,  a  corporal,  was  a  young  man  of 
twenty-two,  of  average  height,  and  splendidly  built. 
His  face,  with  its  beautifully  chiselled  nose  and  lips,  was 
as  regular  in  its  features  as  if  it  had  been  the  work  of 
some  sculptor.  His  chin  was  covered  with  a  fair  curly 
beard,  and  there  was  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  blue  eyes. 
When  the  command  was  "  Singers  to  the  front  !"  he  used 
to  be  the  leader  of  our  company.  He  was  the  possessor 
of  a  tenor  voice,  and  would  sing  falsetto  when  high  notes 
were  necessary.  He  was  a  native  of  the  Vladimir 
Government,  but  had  lived  since  childhood  in  St.  Peters- 
burg. Contrary  to  the  general  rule,  Petersburg  **  educa- 
tion "  had  not  spoilt  him,  but  had  merely  polished  him, 
and  had  taught  him  to  read  the  papers  and  to  speak 
"  wise  words." 

"  Of  course,  Vladimir  Mikhailovich,"  he  used  to  say  to 
me,  "  I  can  judge  better  than  '  Uncle  '  Jitkoff,  because 
*  Peter  '*  has  set  its  mark  on  me.  There  is  a  civilization 
in  '  Peter,'  but  nothing  but  ignorance  and  savagery  in 
the  provinces.  However,  as  he  is  not  a  young  man,  but, 
so  to  speak,  has  seen  things  and  undergone  various 
vicissitudes  of  fate,  I  cannot  shout  at  him.  He  is  forty, 
and  I  am  only  in  my  twenty-third  year.  But  I  am  a 
corporal." 

"  Uncle  "  Jitkoff    was  a  gnarled  -  looking  peasant  of 

extraordinary  strength  and  a  perpetually  morose  visage. 

His  face  was  swarthy.     He  had  prominent  cheek-bones 

and  little  eyes,  which  looked  out  from  under  his  eyebrows. 

*  The  people's  name  for  St.  Petersburg. 


286    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

He  never  smiled,  and  rarely  spoke.  He  was  a  carpenter 
by  trade,  and  was  on  '*  indefinite  leave "  w^hen  the 
mobilization  order  was  issued.  He  had  only  a  lew 
months  more  to  serve  in  the  reserve  when  the  war  broke 
out  and  compelled  him  to  take  part  in  the  campaign, 
leaving  a  wafe  and  five  small  children  behind  him  at  home. 
In  spite  of  an  unprepossessing  exterior  and  perpetual 
moroseness,  there  was  something  attractive  in  him — 
something  kind  and  strong.  Now,  as  I  have  said,  it 
seems  quite  unintelligible  to  me  how  I  could  ever  have 
mixed  up  these  two  neighbours,  but  for  the  first  two  days 
they  seemed  alike  to  me.  Each  was  grey ;  each  was 
tired  and  benumbed  with  the  cold. 

The  rain  was  unceasing  during  the  whole  first  half  of 
May,  and  we  were  marching  without  tents.  The  seem- 
ingly never-ending  sticky  road  rose  over  hills  and  dipped 
into  gullies  almost  every  verst.  It  w^as  heavy  marching. 
Clumps  of  mud  stuck  to  our  feet,  a  leaden  grey  sky  hung 
low  and  threateningly  over  us,  and  rained  a  continual 
fine  drizzle  on  us,  and  there  was  no  end  to  it.  There  was 
no  hope  of  drying  and  warming  ourselves  when  we  reached 
the  night's  camp.  The  Roumanians  would  not  let  us 
into  their  cottages,  and,  indeed,  there  was  no  room 
anywhere  for  such  a  mass  of  men.  We  used  to  march 
through  the  town  or  village  and  camp  anywhere  on  the 
common. 

"  Halt  !  .  .  .     Pile  arms  !" 

And  there  was  nothing  for  it,  when  we  had  eaten  our 
hot  broth,  but  to  lie  down  actually  in  the  mud.  Water 
below,  water  above.  It  seemed  as  if  one's  whole  body 
was  permeated  with  water. 

Shivering,  w^e  wrapped  ourselves  up  in  our  great-coats, 
and,  gradually  getting  warm  with  a  moist  warmth,  slept 
soundly  until  again  awakened  by  the  universally  detested 
"  assembly."  Then  again  the  grey  column,  the  grey  sky, 
muddy  road,  and  dismal  dripping  hills  and  valleys.  It 
was  hard  on  us. 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF    287 

"  They  have  opened  all  the  windows  of  heaven,"  said, 
with  a  sigh,  our  squad  leader,  a  N.C.O.  named  Karpoff, 
a  veteran  who  had  served  through  the  Khiva  campaign. 
*'  We  are  soaked  and  soaked  without  end." 

''  We  shall  get  dry,  Vasil  Karpich  !  Look,  there  is 
the  sun  peeping  out ;  it  will  dry  us  all.  The  march  will 
be  a  long  one.  We  shall  have  time  to  get  dry  and  wet 
again  before  we  reach  the  end  of  it.  Mikhailich  !"  said 
my  neighbour,  turning  to  me,  "  is  it  far  to  the  Danube  ?" 

"  Another  three  weeks  yet." 

"  Three  weeks  !  But  we  shall  get  there  in  two 
weeks.  ..." 

"  We  are  going  straight  into  the  clutches  of  the  devil," 
muttered  "  Uncle  "  Jitkoff. 

*'  What  are  you  growling  about,  you  old  blackguard  ? 
You  are  only  making  mischief.  Where  the  devil  are  we 
going  to  ?     Why  do  you  say  things  like  that  ?" 

*'  Well,  are  we  going  on  a  holiday  ?"  snarled  Jitkoff. 

"  No,  not  on  a  holiday,  but  as  our  duty  calls  us,  to 
carry  out  our  oath.  .  .  .  What  did  you  say  when  you 
were  sworn  in  ?  Not  sparing  your  life.  You  old  fool  ! 
Take  care  what  you  are  saying  !" 

'*  But  what  did  I  say,  Vasil  Karpich  ?  Am  I  not 
going  ?     If  to  die,  then  to  die.  .  .  .     It's  all  the  same.  ..." 

'*  Well,  don't  let's  hear  any  more  of  it." 

Jitkoff  relapsed  into  silence.  His  face  became  still 
more  morose.  For  the  matter  of  that,  it  was  no  time 
fo»  talking.  The  going  was  too  heavy.  The  feet  kept 
slipping,  and  men  kept  constantly  falling  into  the  sticky 
mud.  Deep  swearing  resounded  through  the  battalion. 
Only  Feodoroff  did  not  hang  his  head,  but  kept  un- 
wearyingly  relating  to  me  story  after  story  of  Petersburg 
and  the  country. 

However,  there  is  an  end  to  all  things.  One  day,  when 
I  woke  up  in  the  morning  in  our  bivouac  near  a  village 
where  a  halt  had  been  arranged,  I  saw  a  blue  sky,  huts 
with  white  plastered  walls,  and  vineyards  bathed  in  the 


288    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

bright  morning  sun,  and  heard  gay,  animated  voices.  All 
had  already  risen,  had  dried  their  clothes,  and  had  re- 
covered from  the  arduous  ten  days'  march  in  the  rain 
without  tents.  During  the  halt  they  were  brought  up. 
The  soldiers  immediately  stretched  them  out,  and,  having 
pitched  them  properly,  driven  in  the  tent-pegs,  and 
tightened  the  canvas,  were  almost  all  lying  in  their  shade. 

**  They  did  not  help  us  when  it  was  raining.  They  will 
guard  us  from  the  sun." 

"  Yes,  so  the  '  Barin's  '  face  shan't  get  burnt,"  joked 
Feodoroff,  slyly  winking  towards  me. 


II 

We  had  only  two  officers  in  our  company — the  com- 
pany commander,  Captain  Zaikin,  and  a  subaltern  officer, 
a  lieutenant  of  the  reserve  named  Stebelkoff.  The 
company  commander  was  a  man  of  middle  age,  rather 
stout,  and  of  jovial  disposition.  Stebelkoff  was  a  youth 
only  just  out  of  the  Academy.  They  lived  on  good  terms 
with  each  other.  The  Captain  took  care  of  the  Lieutenant, 
messed  him,  and  during  the  rain  even  sheltered  him  under 
his  own  waterproof  cloak.  When  they  issued  out  the 
tents  our  officers  camped  together,  and  as  the  officers' 
tents  were  spacious,  the  Captain  decided  to  take  me  in 
with  him. 

Tired  out  by  a  sleepless  night,  our  company  had  been 
told  off  to  help  the  transport,  and  had  spent  the  wliole 
night  in  dragging  it  out  of  gullies,  and  had  even  pulled 
the  carts  and  waggons  out  of  swollen  streams  by  singing. 

I  was  sleeping  soundly  after  dinner,  when  the  Captairi'o 
servant  awoke  me  by  cautiously  touching  my  shoulder. 

"  Sir,  Mr.  Ivanoff,  Mr.  Ivanoff "  he  whispered,  as 

if  he  did  not  want  to  awake  me,  but  rather  was  trying  all 
he  could  not  to  disturb  my  sleep. 

*'  What's  the  matter  ?" 

"  The  Captain  wants  you."    Then,  seeing  me  putting 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF    289 

on  my  belt  and  bayonet,  added  :  **  He  said  I  was  to  bring 
you  just  as  you  were." 

A  whole  crowd  had  assembled  in  Zaikin's  tent.  Besides 
its  usual  occupants  there  were  two  more  officers — the 
regimental  Adjutant  and  the  commander  of  the  rifle 
company,  named  Ventzel.  In  1877  ^  battalion  did  not 
consist,  as  now,  of  four  companies,  but  of  five.  On  ser- 
vice the  rifle  company  brought  up  the  rear,  so  that  the 
rear  files  of  our  company  were  in  touch  with  their  front 
files.  I  often  marched  almost  amongst  the  riflemen,  and 
I  had  already  several  times  heard  from  them  the  most 
uncomplimentary  remarks  about  Staff-Captain  Ventzel. 
All  four  officers  were  seated  around  a  box  which  took 
the  place  of  a  table,  and  on  which  stood  a  samovar, 
plates  and  dishes,  etc.,  and  a  bottle,  and  were  drink- 
ing tea. 

"  Mr.  Ivanoff  !  Come  in,  please,"  cried  out  the  Cap- 
tain. "  Nikita  !  Bring  a  cup,  mug,  or  glass,  or  whatever 
you  have.  Ventzel,  move  up  a  bit,  and  let  Ivanoff  sit 
down." 

Ventzel  stood  up  and  bowed  very  courteously.  He  was 
a  short,  raw-boned,  pale,  and  nervous-looking  young  man* 
What  restless  eyes  !  and  what  thin  lips  !  were  the  thoughts 
which  came  into  my  head  when  I  first  saw  him.  The 
Adjutant,  without  rising,  stretched  out  his  hand. 
*'  Lukin,"  he  said  briefly,  introducing  himself. 

I  felt  awkward.  The  officers  were  silent.  Ventzel  was 
sipping  tea  in  which  w^as  some  rum.  The  Adjutant  was 
pulling  at  a  short  pipe,  and  Stebelkoff,  the  Lieutenant, 
having  nodded  to  me,  went  on  reading  a  battered  volume, 
a  t.  auslation  of  some  novel  which  went  through  the  march 
from  Russia  to  the  Danube  with  him  in  a  portmanteau 
and  subsequently  returned  home  in  a  still  more  battered 
state.  My  host  poured  out  some  tea  into  a  large  earthen- 
ware mug  and  added  an  enormous  go  of  rum. 

*'  How  are  you,  Mr.  Student  ?  Don't  be  angry  with 
me.     I  am  a  plain  man.     Yes,  and  all  of  us  here,  you 

19 


290    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

know,  are  just  common  folk.  But  you  are  an  educated 
man,  so  you  must  excuse  us.     Isn't  that  so  ?" 

And  he  seized  my  hand  with  his  huge  fist  as  a  bird  of 
prey  seizes  its  booty,  and  waved  it  several  times  in  the 
air,  looking  at  me  with  a  kind  expression  in  his  prominent 
round  little  eyes. 

''  Are  you  a  student  ?"  inquired  Ventzel. 

'*  Yes,  sir,  I  was." 

He  smiled  and  raised  his  restless  eyes  on  me.  I  re- 
called the  soldiers'  stories  I  had  heard  about  him,  and 
doubted  their  truth. 

"Why  'sir'?  Here  in  this  tent  we  are  all  alike. 
Here  you  are  simply  an  intelligent  man  amongst  others 
like  yourself,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  An  intelligent  man  !  Yes,  that's  true,"  exclaimed 
Zaikin.  "  A  student  !  I  like  students,  although  they 
are  such  insubordinate  beggars.  I  should  have  been  a 
student  myself  if  it  had  not  been  for  fate." 

*'  What  was  your  particular  fate,  Ivan  Platonich  ?" 
inquired  the  Adjutant. 

*'  Why,  I  simply  could  not  work  up  for  exams.  Mathe- 
matics were  not  so  bad,  but  as  for  the  rest  ...  it  was 
hopeless.  Literature,  composition.  I  never  learnt  to 
write  properly  when  I  was  a  cadet.     Honestly  !" 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Student,"  said  the  Adjutant 
between  two  gigantic  puffs  of  smoke,  "  how  Ivan  Pla- 
tonich makes  four  spelling  mistakes  in  one  simple 
word  ?" 

"  Come,  come,  don't  tell  lies,  old  chap,"  said  Zaikin 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

**  It's  quite  true  ;  I  am  not  lying,"  said  the  Adjutant, 
laughing  heartily  as  he  spelt  the  word  a  la  Zaikin. 

"  Laugh  away !  But  the  Adjutant  himself  is  no 
better,"  said  Zaikin,  giving  a  specimen  in  his  turn. 

The  Adjutant  roared  with  laughter.  Stebelkoff,  who 
happened  to  have  his  mouth  full  of  tea,  spluttered  it  over 
his  novel  and  put  out  one  of  the  two  candles  which  lighted 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF    291 

the  tent.  I  too  could  not  help  laughing.  Ivan  Platonich, 
thoroughly  pleased  with  his  witticism,  went  off  into  peals 
of  deep  laughter.     Only  Ventzel  did  not  laugh. 

"  It  was  literature,  then,  Ivan  Platonich  ?"  he  inquired 
quietly  as  before. 

"  Literature.  .  .  .  Yes,  and  other  things.  It  reminds 
me  of  a  man  who  only  knew  of  the  equator  in  geography 
and  the  meaning  of  the  word  '  era  '  in  history.  But,  no, 
I  am  speaking  rot.  That  wasn't  the  reason.  It  was 
simply  that  I  had  money  and  would  never  do  any  work. 
I,  Ivanoff  ...  I  beg  your  pardon,  what's  your  name  ?" 

"  Vladimir  Mikhailich." 

*'  Vladimir  Mikhailich  ?  Thank  you.  .  .  .  Well,  I  was 
a  light-headed  fellow  from  the  very  first,  and  what  tricks 
I  used  to  play  !  You  know  the  song  about  the  boy  who 
had  money. 

"  I  entered  this  famous,  although  a  purely  line  regiment, 
as  a  junker.  They  sent  me  to  school.  I  only  just 
passed,  and  now  I  have  been  twenty  years  slaving  in  the 
service.  Now  we  are  dodging  after  the  Turk.  Drink 
up,  gentlemen — drink  properly  !  Is  it  worth  while 
spoiling  good  tea  ?  Let  us  drink,  gentlemen,  to  '  Food 
for  powder.'  " 

"  Chair  a  canon,"  said  Ventzel. 

"  Well,  all  right,  in  French,  if  you  like.  Our  Captain, 
Vladimir  Mikhailich,  is  a  clever  man.  He  knows  several 
languages,  and  can  repeat  a  lot  of  German  poetry  by  heart. 
Look  here,  young  man,  I  sent  for  you  to  propose  you 
should  transfer  yourself  into  my  tent.  Where  you  are 
now  there  are  six  of  you,  and  it  is  stifling  and  crowded 
with  soldiers.  Besides,  they  are  not  over  clean.  In  any 
case,  you  will  be  better  off  with  us." 

**  Thank  you,  but  please  allow  me  to  refuse  your 
offer." 

"Why?  Bosh!  Nikita !  Go  and  fetch  his  knap- 
sack !     Which  tent  are  you  in  ?" 

'*  The  second  on  the  right.     But  please  allow  me  to 


292    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

stay  there.  I  have  to  be  more  with  the  men,  and  it  is 
better  I  should  be  altogether  with  them." 

The  Captain  looked  at  me  attentively,  as  if  desirous 
of  reading  my  thoughts.  Having  pondered  a  little,  he  said  : 

'*  What  is  it  ?  You  want  to  makp  friends  with  the 
men  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  it  is  possible." 

**  That's  right.     Don't  change.     I  respect  you  for  it." 

And  he  grabbed  my  hand  and  once  more  waved  it  in 
the  air. 

Soon  aften^^ards  I  took  farewell  of  the  officers  and  left 
the  tent.  It  had  growTi  dark.  The  men  were  putting 
on  their  great-coats  in  preparation  for  evening  prayers. 
The  companies  were  drawn  up  in  their  lines,  so  that  each 
battalion  formed  a  closed  square,  within  which  were  the 
tents  and  piled  arms.  Owing  to  the  halt,  the  whole  of 
our  division  had  got  together.  The  drums  were  beating 
tattoo,  and  from  afar  could  be  heard  the  words  of  the 
command  preparatory  to  prayers  : 

"  Remove  caps  !" 

And  twelve  thousand  men  bared  their  heads.  "  Our 
Father  which  art  in  Heaven,"  began  our  company.  The 
chant  was  taken  up  around  us.  Sixty  choirs  of  two 
hundred  men  each,  and  each  choir  singing  independently. 
There  were  discordant  notes  to  be  heard,  but,  neverthe- 
less, the  hymn  produced  a  stirring  and  solemn  effect. 
Gradually  the  choirs  came  to  an  end.  Finally,  the  last 
company  of  the  battalion  at  the  far  end  of  the  camp 
sang,  ''  But  deliver  us  from  evil."  The  drums  gave  a 
short  roll,  and  the  order  : 

"  Put  on  head-dress  !"  was  given. 

The  soldiers  laid  themselves  down  to  sleep.  In  our 
tent,  where,  as  in  the  other  tents,  six  men  occupied  a 
space  of  two  square  sajenes,  my  place  was  near  the  walls 
of  the  tent,  and  for  a  long  time  I  lay  gazing  at  the  stars, 
at  the  camp-fires  of  other  troops  far  from  us,  and  listening 
to  the  low,  confused  murmur  of  a  large  camp.     In  the 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF    293 

neighbouring  tent  someone  was  telling  a  fairy-tale,  ever- 
lastingly interspersed  with  "  And  after  that  .  .  ."  *'  and 
after  that  this  prince  went  to  his  spouse  and  began  to 
scold  her  about  everything.  And  after  that  she  .  .  . 
Lutikoff,  are  you  asleep  ?  Well,  sleep,  then,  and  God 
be  with  you,"  murmured  the  narrator  of  the  tale,  and 
lapsed  into  silence. 

The  sound  of  conversation  was  audible  from  the 
officers'  tent  also,  and  the  movements  of  the  officers 
sitting  there  were  revealed  in  distorted  form  against  the 
canvas  by  the  light  of  the  candles.  From  time  to  time 
could  be  heard  the  noisy  laugh  of  the  Adjutant.  An 
armed  sentry  was  pacing  his  beat  in  our  lines.  Opposite, 
and  not  far  from  us,  was  the  artillery  camp,  with  yet 
another  sentry  with  drawn  sword.  The  stamping  of  the 
horses  picketed  in  their  lines,  and  their  deep  bretahing 
as  they  quietly  chewed  their  oats,  could  be  plainly  heard, 
a  sound  which  recalled  nights  passed  at  post-stages  in 
now  far-away  homeland  on  just  such  quiet  starlight  nights 
as  this  one. 

The  Great  Bear  constellation  was  shining  low  down 
on  the  horizon,  much  lower  down  than  with  us  in  Russia. 
Gazing  at  the  North  Star,  I  pondered  as  to  the  exact 
direction  in  which  St.  Petersburg  lay,  where  I  had  left 
my  mother,  friends,  and  all  dear  to  me.  Above  my 
head  familiar  star  groups  were  shining.  The  Milky 
Way  shone  in  a  bright,  majestically  calm,  band  of  light. 
Towards  the  South  burned  the  great  stars  of  some  con- 
stellations unknown  to  me,  one  with  a  red,  and  the  other 
with  a  greenish  fire.  I  wondered  whether  I  should  see 
any  other  strange  stars  when  we  were  across  the  Danube 
and  Balkans,  and  into  Constantinople. 

As  I  did  not  feel  sleepy,  I  got  up  and  commenced  to 
stroll  along  the  damp  grass  between  our  lines  and  the 
artillery.  A  dark  figure  came  up  with  me,  and,  guessing 
by  the  clinking  of  a  sword  that  it  was  an  officer,  I  turned 
to  my  front.     It  proved  to  be  Ventzel. 


294    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

"  Not  asleep,  Vladimir  Mikhailich?"  he  inquired  in  a 
soft,  quiet  voice. 

"  No,  sir." 

"  My  name  is  Peter  Nicolaievitch  .  .  .  and  I  also  cannot 
sleep.  ...  I  sat  and  sat  with  your  Captain.  But  it  was 
boring.  They  sat  down  to  cards,  and  were  all  drinking 
too  much.  .  .  .     Ah,  what  a  night !" 

He  walked  alongside  me,  and,  reaching  the  end  of  our 
lines,  we  turned  and  continued  to  pace  backwards  and 
forwards  in  this  manner  several  times,  neither  of  us 
saying  anything.  Ventzel  was  the  first  to  break  the 
silence. 

"  Tell  me,  you  have  started  on  this  campaign  volun- 
tarily r 

"  Yes." 

"  What  induced  you  to  do  so  ?" 

"  How  can  I  explain  ?"  I  replied,  not  wishing  to  go 
into  details.  "  Chiefly,  of  course,  a  desire  to  experience 
and  see  things  personally." 

*'  And  probably  to  study  the  people  in  thejperson  of 
its  representative — the  soldier  ?"  inquired  Ventzel.  It 
was  dark,  and  I  could  not  see  the  expression  on  his  face, 
but  I  detected  the  irony  in  his  tone. 

'*  How  could  one  study  here?  How  can  one  study 
when  one  only  thinks  of  how  to  get  to  the  night's  camp 
and  sleep  ?" 

'*  No ;  without  joking,  teU  me  why  you  would  not 
transfer  yourself  to  your  Captain's  tent  ?  Surely  you 
do  not  value  the  opinion  of  a  moujik  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  value  the  opinion  of  anyone  whose  opinion 
I  have  no  reason  not  to  respect." 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  disbelieve  you.  Besides,  it  is 
the  fashion  nowadays.  Even  literature  presents  the 
moujik  as  a  masterpiece  of  creation." 

"  But  who  is  speaking  of  masterpieces  of  creation, 
Peter  Nicolaievitch  ?  If  only  they  would  recognize  him 
as  a  man." 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF    295 

"  Enough  of  such  sentimentality,  please  !  Who  does 
not  recognize  him  as  a  man  ?  A  man  ?  Well,  granted 
he  is  a  man,  but  what  sort  is  another  question.  .  .  .  Well, 
let's  talk  of  something  else." 

We  did,  in  fact,  talk  a  great  deal.  Ventzel  had  evidently- 
read  a  great  deal,  and,  as  Zaikin  had  said,  "  knew 
languages." 

The  Captain's  remark  that  he  could  recite  poetry  also 
proved  to  be  true.  We  talked  about  French  writers, 
and  Ventzel,  having  censured  the  "  Realist "  school, 
went  back  to  the  thirties  and  forties,  and  even  recited 
with  feeling  Alfred  de  Musset's  "  A  December  Night.'* 
His  rendering  of  it  was  good,  simple,  and  expressive,  and 
with  a  good  accent.  Having  recited  it,  he  was  silent,  and 
then  added  : 

"  Yes,  it  is  good,  but  all  the  French  authors  put 
together  are  not  worth  ten  lines  of  Schiller,  Goethe,  or 
Shakespeare." 

Until  he  got  his  company,  he  had  charge  of  the  regi- 
mental library,  and  had  followed  Russian  literature 
closely. 

Talking  of  it,  he  expressed  himself  strongly  against 
what  he  termed  its  "  boorish  tendency."  The  conversa- 
tion then  reverted  to  the  old  subject.  Ventzel  argued 
heatedly  : 

"  When  I  was  almost  a  boy,  I  entered  the  regiment, 
and  I  did  not  then  think  what  I  am  telling  you  now. 
I  tried  to  act  by  mere  force  of  word.  I  endeavoured  to 
obtain  some  moral  influence  over  the  men.  But  after  a 
year  they  had  exhausted  me.  All  that  remained  from  the 
so-called  good  books  coming  into  contact  with  actuality 
proved  to  be  sentimental  bosh,  and  now  I  am  convinced 
that  the  only  way  of  making  oneself  understood  is — 
that  !" 

He  made  some  sort  of  gesture  with  his  hand.  But  it 
was  so  dark  that  I  did  not  understand  it. 

**  What,  Peter  Nicolaievitch  ?" 


296    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

"  A  clenched  fist  !"  he  interjected. 

"  But  good-night ;  it  is  time  to  sleep.'* 

I  saluted  and  went  back  to  my  own  tent,  sorry  and 
disgusted. 

They  were  apparently  all  asleep,  but  a  minute  later, 
when  I  had  laid  down,  Feodoroff ,  who  was  sleeping  along- 
side me,  asked  quietly  : 

**  Mikhailich,  are  you  asleep  ?" 

"  No,  why  1" 

"  Were  you  walking  with  Venztel  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  How  was  he  ?     Quiet  ?" 

"  All  right — quiet  and  even  kind." 

*'  Well,  well.  What  it  means  to  be  a  brother  Barin  ! 
He  isn't  like  that  with  us." 

*'  What  do  you  mean  ?  Is  he  really  very  bad- 
tempered  ?" 

"  I  should  just  think  so — awful.  He  makes  their 
teeth  rattle  in  the  second  rifle  company,  the  beast  !" 

And  Feodoroff  forthwith  fell  asleep,  so  that  in  reply 
to  my  next  question  I  heard  only  his  even  and  calm 
breathing.  I  wrapped  myself  up  more  tightly  in  my  big 
cloak.  My  thoughts  became  at  first  confused,  and  then 
disappeared  in  sound  sleep. 

Ill 

The  rain  was  followed  by  heat.  About  this  time  we 
left  the  little  village  w^here  our  feet  used  to  stick  in  the 
slippery  mud,  and  came  on  to  the  main  road  leading  from 
Yass  to  Bukarest.  Our  first  march  along  this  road  from 
Tekuch  to  Berlada  will  always  be  remembered  by  those 
who  made  it.  It  was  thirty-five  degrees  (Reaumur)  in  the 
shade,  and  the  distance  was  forty-eight  versts.  It  was 
perfectly  still.  A  fine  dust,  full  of  lime,  which  was  being 
raised  by  thousands  of  feet,  hung  over  the  road.  It  got 
into  our  noses  and  mouths,  and  powdered  our  hair  so 
thickly  that  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  its  colour. 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF    297 

Settling  all  over  our  perspiring  faces,  it  became  mud, 
and  turned  us  into  niggers.  For  some  reason  we  marched 
in  our  tunics  instead  of  in  our  shirt-sleeves.  The  black 
cloth  drew  the  sun,  which  literally  baked  our  heads 
through  our  black  shakos.  The  almost  red-hot  stones  of 
the  metalled  road  could  be  felt  through  the  soles  of  our 
boots.  The  men  kept  on  "  falling  out."  To  add  to  our 
misfortunes,  there  were  few  wells  along  the  route,  and  there 
was  for  the  most  part  so  little  water  in  them  that  the 
head  of  our  column  (it  was  a  whole  division)  exhausted 
the  supply,  and  after  frightful  crushing  and  pushing  at 
the  wells,  we  found  only  a  sticky  liquid  more  resembling 
mud  than  water.  When  there  was  not  even  this,  the 
men  used  to  fall,  utterly  done  up.  On  this  day  in  ou 
battalion  alone  about  ninety  men  fell  out  along  the  road. 
Three  died  from  sunstroke. 

Compared  with  my  comrades,  this  trial  affected  me 
but  lightly.  Possibly  because  the  majority  of  my 
battalion  hailed  from  the  North,  whereas  I  had  been 
accustomed  from  childhood  to  the  heat  of  the  Steppe. 
Perhaps,  also,  there  was  another  cause.  I  had  occasion 
to  note  that  the  common  soldier,  speaking  generally, 
takes  physical  suffering  more  to  heart  than  is  the  case 
with  those  drawn  from  the  so-called  privileged  classes. 
(I  am  referring  only  to  those  who  went  to  the  war  as 
volunteers.)  To  the  ordinary  soldier  physical  misfor- 
tunes were  a  source  of  genuine  grief,  capable  of  producing 
depression  and,  in  general,  mental  torture.  Those  who 
were  going  to  the  war  as  volunteers  of  course  suffered, 
physically  speaking,  no  less,  but  rather  more,  than  the 
soldier  drawn  from  the  lower  class — owing  to  a  more 
tender  upbringing,  comparative  bodily  weakness,  etc., 
but  inwardly  were  calmer.  Their  spiritual  world  could 
not  be  disturbed  by  bleeding  feet,  insufferable  heat,  and 
deadly  tiredness.  Never  have  I  experienced  such  com- 
plete spiritual  calm,  such  peace  within  myself,  and  such 
contentment  with  life  as  when  I  was  undergoing  these 


298    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

hardships,  and  went  forward  under  a  rain  of  bullets  to 
kill  people.  All  this  may  seem  wild  and  strange,  but  I 
am  only  writing  the  truth. 

However  that  may  be,  when  others  fell  by  the  road- 
side I  still  kept  up. 

In  Tekuch  I  supplied  myself  with  an  enormous  cala- 
bash water-bottle,  holding  at  least  four  flaskfuls.  It 
often  cost  me  dear  to  fill  it.  Half  of  the  water  I  used  to 
keep  for  myself,  and  the  other  half  I  shared  out  to  my 
comrades.  A  man  would  force  himself  to  plod  along, 
but  in  the  end  the  heat  would  claim  him.  His  legs  would 
begin  to  bend  under  him,  his  body  reel  as  if  drunk. 
Through  the  thick  layer  of  grime  and  dust  could  be  seen 
the  apoplectic  hue  of  his  face  as  his  trembling  hands 
gripped  his  rifle.  A  gulp  of  w^ater  would  revive  him  for 
a  few  minutes,  but  eventually  the  man  would  fall  sense- 
less into  the  road  thick  with  lime-dust.  Hoarse  voices 
would  cry  out  *'  Orderly  !"  It  was  the  orderly's  duty 
to  drag  the  fallen  man  to  one  side,  and  assist  him  although 
he  was  himself  almost  in  the  same  condition.  The  ditches 
along  the  road  were  sown  with  prostrate  men.  .  .  . 
Feodoroff  and  Jitkoff  were  marching  alongside  me,  and, 
though  obviously  suffering,  were  endeavouring  to  hold 
out.  The  heat  was  affecting  each  reversely,  according  to 
his  temperament.  Talkative  Feodoroff  kept  silent,  merely 
giving  an  occasional  deep  sigh,  and  a  piteous  look  was  in 
his  beautiful  but  now  dust-inflamed  eyes.  *'  Uncle " 
Jitkoff,  on  the  other  hand,  kept  up  a  continuous  flow  of 
abuse  and  argument. 

"  Look  at  him,  tumbling  down — he  wiU  stick  me  with 

his   bayonet,   d n  him  !  ..."  he  would  cry  angrily, 

avoiding  some  fallen  soldier,  the  point  of  whose  bayonet 
had  nearly  caught  him  in  the  eye.  "  Lord  !  why  are  you 
sending  this  on  us  ?  If  it  wasn't  for  that  brute  I  should 
fall  myself." 

"  Who  is  the  brute,  '  Uncle '  ?"  I  asked. 

*'  Niemtseff,  the  Staff-Captain.     He  is  orderly  officer 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF    299 

to-day,  and  is  in  the  rear.     Better  to  go  ahead  or  else 
he  will  beat  me  black  and  blue." 

I  already  knew  that  the  men  had  changed  the  name 
Ventzel  into  Niemtseff.  The  two  names  were  not  unlike 
in  Russian.  I  stepped  out  of  the  ranks.  It  was  a  little 
easier  marching  along  the  side  of  the  road.  There  was 
less  dust  and  not  so  much  jostling.  Many  were  doing 
this.  On  this  unfortunate  day  nobody  cared  about 
keeping  the  ranks.  Gradually  I  dropped  behind  my 
company,  and  found  myself  at  the  tail  of  the  column. 

Ventzel,  worn  out  and  breathless  but  excited,  caught 
me  up. 

*'  How  are  you  getting  on  ?"  he  inquired,  in  a  hoarse 
voice.  **  Let  us  go  along  the  side  of  the  road.  I  am 
absolutely  worn  out." 

"  Do  you  want  some  water  7" 

He  greedily  took  several  gulps  from  my  water-bottle. 
"  Thank  you,  I  feel  better  now.     What  a  day  !" 
For  a  little  time  we  marched  side  by  side  in  silence. 
*'  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  you  have  not  transferred 
yourself  to  Ivan  Platonich  ?" 
"  No." 

"  More  fool  you.  Excuse  my  outspokenness.  Au 
revoir.  I  am  wanted  at  the  tail  of  the  column.  For 
some  reason  many  of  these  tender  creations  are  falling 
down." 

Having  gone  a  few  paces  farther,  I  turned  my  head 
and  saw  Ventzel  bend  over  a  fallen  soldier,  and  drag  him 
by  the  shoulder. 

"  Get  up,  you  blackguard  !  Get  up  !" 
I  literally  did  not  recognize  my  educated  conversation- 
alist. He  was  pouring  out  an  endless  flow  of  the  coarsest 
abuse.  The  soldier  was  almost  senseless,  and  his  lips 
were  murmuring  something  as  he  gazed  up  with  a  hopeless 
expression  at  the  infuriated  officer. 

"  Get  up  !  Get  up  immediately  ,  Aha  !  you  won't  ? 
Then  take  that,  and  that,  and  that  !" 


300    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

Ventzel  had  seized  his  sword,  and  was  dealing  blow 
after  blow  with  its  iron  scabbard  over  the  wretched  man's 
shoulders,  all  blistered  and  aching  from  the  weight  of  his 
knapsack  and  rifle.  I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  went 
up  to  Ventzel. 

"  Peter  Nicolaievitch  !" 

"  Get  up  !  .  .  ."  His  arm  with  the  sword  was  once 
more  raised  for  a  blow,  when  I  succeeded  in  seizing  it 
firmly. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Peter  Nicolaievitch,  leave  him 
alone  !" 

He  turned  a  frenzied  face  towards  me.  He  was  a 
terrifying  sight  with  his  eyes  half  out  of  his  head,  and 
a  distorted  mouth,  which  was  convulsively  twitching. 
With  a  sharp  movement  he  wrenched  his  arm  from  my 
hold.  I  thought  that  he  would  roar  at  me  for  my  bold- 
ness (to  seize  an  officer  by  the  arm  was  certainly  most 
daring),  but  he  restrained  himself. 

**  Listen,  Ivanoff ;  never  do  this.  If,  in  my  place,  there 
was  some  other  brute,  such  as  Schuroff  or  Timothieff, 
you  would  have  paid  dearly  for  your  pleasantry.  You 
must  remember  that  you  are  a  private,  and  that  for  such 
action  you  could  be  vvithout  further  words — shot." 

"It  is  all  the  same  to  me.  I  could  not  see  and  not 
interfere." 

"  It  does  honour  to  your  tender  feelings.  But  apply 
them  elsewhere.  Can  one  act  otherwise  with  these  ?  .  .  ." 
(His  face  assumed  an  expression  of  contempt — nay,  more, 
hatred.)  *'  Perhaps  ten  of  these  scores  who  have  given 
way  and  fallen  down  like  a  lot  of  old  women  are  really 
absolutely  played  out.  I  am  doing  this  not  from  cruelty. 
I  have  none  in  my  nature.  But  one  must  maintain 
discipline.  If  it  was  possible  to  reason  with  them,  I 
would  talk,  but  words  have  no  effect  on  them.  They 
understand  and  feel  only  physical  pain." 

I  did  not  hear  him  out,  but  started  to  overtake  my 
com-pany,  which  was  already  far  av/ay.      I  caught  up 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF    301 

Feodoroff  and  JitkofT  as  our  battalion  debouched  from 
the  road  into  a  field  and  was  halted. 

"  What  were  you  talking  about,  Mikhailich,  with  Staff- 
Captain  Ventzel  ?"  asked  Feodoroff,  when,  thoroughly 
exhausted,  I  threw  myself  down  near  him,  after  having 
with  difficulty  piled  my  arm. 

"  Talking,"  muttered  Jitkoff. 

"  Can  you  call  it  talking  ?     He  seized  him  by  the  arm." 

'*  Take  care,  Ivanoff,  sir.  Be  careful  of  Niemtseff. 
Don't  be  misled  because  he  likes  to  talk  with  you.  It 
will  cost  you  dear." 

IV 

Late  that  evening  we  reached  Fokshan,  passed  through 
the  unlighted,  silent,  and  dusty  little  town,  and  came  out 
somewhere  into  a  field.  It  was  as  dark  as  pitch  ;  the 
battalions  were  camped  anyhow,  and  worn-out  men  slept 
as  if  dead.  Scarcely  anyone  cared  to  eat  the  "  dinner  " 
which  had  been  prepared.  The  soldier's  food  is  always 
dinner,  whether  it  is  early  morning,  daytime,  or  night. 
All  night  long  stragglers  were  coming  in.  At  dawn  we 
were  again  on  the  march,  but  consoled  ourselves  with  the 
act  that  at  the  end  of  it  there  was  to  be  a  day's  halt. 

Once  again  the  moving  ranks,  once  again  the  knapsack 
presses  benumbed  shoulders,  once  again  the  pain  of  sore 
and  bleeding  feet.  But  the  first  ten  versts  were  per- 
formed in  a  kind  of  stupor.  The  short  sleep  we  had  had 
was  not  able  to  destroy  the  fatigue  of  yesterday,  and  the 
men  practically  slept  as  they  marched.  I  slept  so  soundly 
that  when  we  had  our  first  halt  I  could  not  believe  we  had 
already  covered  ten  versts,  and  could  not  recall  any  one 
part  of  the  road  we  had  traversed.  Only  when,  as  a 
prelude  to  a  halt,  the  columns  begin  to  close  in  and 
re-form  does  one  awake  and  think  with  joy  of  an  hour's 
rest  and  the  possibility  of  throwing  off  one's  pack,  of 
boiling  water  in  one's  canteen,  and  lying  free  whilst 
sipping  hot  tea.     As  soon  as  arms  are  piled  and  knap- 


302    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

sacks  removed  the  majority  commence  collecting  fire- 
wood— almost  always  the  dry  stalks  of  last  year's  maize- 
crops.  Two  bayonets  are  stuck  into  the  ground,  a  ram- 
rod is  laid  on  them,  and  two  or  three  canteens  hung  on 
it.  The  dry,  brittle  stalks  burn  brightly  and  merrily. 
The  flames  lick  the  blackened  canteens,  and  within  ten 
minutes  the  water  is  boiling  hard.  The  men  used  to 
throw  the  tea  straight  into  the  kettle,  allowing  it  to  boil 
for  a  short  timxC,  which  resulted  in  a  strong,  almost  black, 
tea,  drunk  for  the  most  part  without  sugar,  as  the  com- 
missariat, while  issuing  plenty  of  tea  (the  men  even 
smoked  it  when  out  of  tobacco),  gave  us  very  little  sugar. 
The  tea  was  drunk  in  enormous  quantities.  A  canteen 
which  held  about  seven  glasses  was  the  usual  one  man's 
portion. 

Perhaps  it  seems  strange  that  I  go  into  such  details. 
But  a  soldier's  life,  when  campaigning,  is  so  hard,  and 
entails  so  much  deprivation,  and  the  future  holds  out  so 
little  hope,  that  even  tea  or  some  such  similar  small 
luxury  gives  enormous  pleasure.  It  was  necessary  to 
see,  to  realize  with  what  serious,  contented  faces  sunburnt, 
rough,  and  stem  soldiers,  young  and  old — true  it  is  that 
there  were  scarcely  any  over  forty  years  of  age  amongst 
us — like  children,  laid  little  sticks  and  stalks  under  the 
canteens,  looked  after  the  fire,  and  advised  each  other. 

"  You,  Lutikoff,  push  them  to  the  edge.  That's  it.  .  .  . 
They  have  begun  to  bum.  Now  the  water  will  boil 
soon." 

Tea,  and  sometimes  in  cold  and  rainy  weather  a  glass  of 
vodka,  or  a  pipe  of  tobacco,  comprised  the  sum-total  of 
a  soldier's  pleasures,  excluding,  of  course,  all-healing 
sleep,  when  it  was  possible  to  forget  bodily  misfortunes 
and  thoughts  of  a  dark  and  terrifying  future.  Tobacco 
played  no  small  role  amongst  these  joys  of  life,  exciting 
and  supporting  exhausted  nerves.  A  tightly  filled  pipe 
would  go  round  ten  men,  and,  being  returned  to  its  owner, 
he  would  take  the  last  pull,  knock  out  the  ash,  and,  with 


REMINISCExNCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF      303 

an  air  of  importance,  secrete  the  pipe  in  the  upper  part 
of  his  jack-boot.  I  remember  my  grief  at  the  loss  of  my 
pipe  by  one  of  my  friends  to  whom  I  had  lent  it  for  a 
smoke,  and  how  he,  too,  was  grieved  and  ashamed  about 
it,  just  as  if  he  had  lost  a  whole  fortune  entrusted  to  him. 

At  the  chief  halt  (about  midday)  we  used  to  rest  for 
an  hour  and  a  half  to  two  hours.  After  drinking  our  tea 
everyone  would  sleep.  Quiet  would  reign  in  the  bivouac. 
Only  the  sentry  on  the  colours  would  pace  to  and  fro, 
and  some  one  or  other  of  the  officers  would  keep  awake. 

We  would  lie  on  the  ground  with  our  knapsacks  under 
our  heads,  neither  asleep  nor  awake.  The  scorching  sun 
would  bum  our  faces  and  necks.  Flies  would  keep  buzzing 
everlastingly  around  us,  making  real  sleep  impossible. 
Dreams  mingled  with  reality.  It  was  so  short  a  time  ago 
that  life  had  been  so  different  that  in  half-conscious 
slumber  one  expected  to  wake  and  find  oneself  at  home ; 
that  this  Steppe  would  disappear ;  this  bare  soil,  with 
thorny  bushes  in  place  of  grass  ;  this  pitiless  sun  and  hot 
wind  ;  these  thousands  of  strangely  attired  men  in  dust- 
stained  shirts  ;  these  piles  of  arms.  It  was  all  like  some 
hideous  nightmare. 

Then  the  powerful  voice  of  our  little  bearded  battalion 
Major,  Chemoglazoff,  would  give  the  command,  "  Ri-ise," 
in  a  long-drawn-out  and  severe  tone  of  voice,  and  the 
prostrate  crowd  of  white  shirts  would  move,  stretch 
itself,  rise,  and  commence  to  strap  on  its  equipment, 
and  form  ranks — "  Unpile  arms  !" 

We  take  our  rifles.  Even  now  I  well  remember  my 
rifle,  No.  18,635,  with  its  stock  rather  darker  than  the 
others,  and  a  long  scratch  along  the  dark  varnish.  Yet 
another  command,  and  the  battalion,  forming  column, 
turns  on  to  the  road.  At  the  extreme  front  of  the 
column  the  Major's  horse  was  led,  a  prancing  bay  stallion 
called  Vavara.  The  Major  only  rode  on  extreme  occa- 
sions, always  marching  at  the  head  of  the  battalion  with 
Vavara,  a  true  infantryman.     He  wished  to  show  the 


304    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

soldiers  that  the  ''  authorities  "  also  endeavoured  to  do 
their  duty,  and  the  soldiers  loved  him  for  it.  He  was 
always  cool  and  collected,  never  joked  nor  smiled.  He 
was  the  first  to  rise  in  the  morning  and  the  last  to  lie 
down  at  night.  His  manner  toward  the  men  was  firm 
and  restrained,  and  he  never  allowed  himself  to  rage  or 
shout  without  reason.  It  was  said  that  but  for.  him 
goodness  knows  what  Ventzel  might  have  done. 

To-day  is  hot,  but  not  like  yesterday.  We  are  no 
longer  marching  along  the  metalled  road,  but  parallel 
with  the  railway,  along  a  narrow  by-road,  so  that  most 
of  us  are  marching  over  grass.  There  is  no  dust.  Clouds 
are  racing  overhead.  At  intervals  there  are  big  rain- 
drops. We  gaze  upwards  at  the  clouds  and  stretch  out 
our  hands  to  see  if  it  is  really  raining.  Even  yesterday's 
stragglers  have  taken  heart.  It  is  no  distance  now,  only 
some  ten  versts,  and  then  a  rest — the  longed-for  rest — not 
merely  for  one  short  night,  but  all  night,  the  next  day,  and 
even  that  night  too.  The  men,  having  cheered  up,  want 
to  sing,  and  Feodoroff  breaks  out  into  the  weU-known  song 
about  Poltava.  Having  sung  how  suddenly  a  mischief- 
making  bullet  found  its  way  into  the  Imperial  head- 
dress, he  switched  off  into  an  idiotic  and  somewhat 
obscene,  but  extremely  popular,  song  amongst  men,  about 
a  certain  Liza  who  went  into  the  woods  and  found  a  bee- 
hive there,  and  all  that  happened  from  this  find.  Then 
followed  the  historic  song  about  Peter  the  Great  and  the 
Senate,  and,  finally,  a  song  of  some  fifty  verses,  an  effort 
by  the  local  talent  of  our  battalion. 

"  Feodoroff,"  I  asked  one  day,  *'  why  do  you  sing  all 
that  bosh  about  Liza  ?" 

I  mentioned  several  other  songs,  idiotic  and  cynical  to 
a  degree. 

"  Orders,  Vladimir  Mikhailich.  But  why  ?  Do  you 
really  call  it  singing  ?  It  is  really  a  kind  of  screeching, 
just  to  work  the  chest  and  to  make  marching  more 
lively." 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF    305 

The  singers  tire  themselves  out,  and  the  band  begins 
to  play.  It  is  much  easier  to  step  out  to  the  measured, 
loud,  and,  for  the  most  part,  lively  marches.  All,  even 
the  most  tired,  pull  themselves  together,  march  strictly 
in  step,  and  keep  their  dressing.  It  is  difficult  to  recog- 
nize the  battahon.  I  remember  how  once  we  marched 
more  than  six  versts  in  an  hour  without  feeling  tired, 
thanks  to  the  band.  But  when  the  exhausted  bandsmen 
ceased  playing,  the  influence  of  the  music  went,  and  I 
felt  as  if  I  should  drop  straightaway,  and  so  I  should  have 
done  had  not  there  been  an  opportune  halt. 

About  five  versts  from  our  halt  we  came  upon  an 
obstacle.  We  were  marching  through  the  valley  of  some 
little  river.  On  the  one  side  there  were  mountains  and 
on  the  other  a  narrow  and  somewhat  high  railway  embank- 
ment. The  recent  rains  had  flooded  the  valley  and  con- 
verted our  road  into  a  kind  of  lake  about  thirty  sajenes 
wide.  The  bed  of  the  railway  rose  above  it  like  a  dam, 
and  we  had  to  cross  over  by  it.  A  ganger  on  the  line  let 
the  first  battalion  over,  which  thus  successfully  avoided 
the  lake,  but  then  declared  that  a  train  was  due  in  five 
minutes'  time,  and  we  must  wait.  We  halted  and  had 
just  piled  arms,  when  the  well-known  carriage  of  the 
Brigadier-General  appeared  at  the  turn  of  the  road. 

He  was  a  great  man.  I  have  never  heard  such  a  voice 
as  he  possessed,  either  on  the  operatic  stage  or  amongst 
cathedral  choirs.  The  echoes  of  his  bass  resounded  in 
the  air  like  a  trumpet,  his  big  well-fed  figure,  with  its  red, 
big  head,  enormous  dark-coloured  whiskers  waving  in  the 
breeze,  and  heavy  black  eyebrows  surmounting  tiny  little 
eyes,  which  shone  like  needles,  was  a  most  inspiring 
sight  as  he  sat  on  his  horse  giving  commands  to  the 
brigade.  On  one  occasion  on  the  manoeuvre-ground  at 
Moscow  during  some  evolutions,  his  appearance  and 
general  demeanour  were  so  martial  and  inspiring  that  an 
old  man  in  the  crowd  in  a  fit  of  enthusiasm  shouted  out : 

"  Bravo  !     That's  the  sort  we  want  !" 

20 


3o6    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE   IVANOFF 

Since  which  occasion  the  General  has  always  been 
known  as  ''  Bravo." 

He  had  ambitions.  He  carried  several  small  volumes 
on  military  history  throughout  the  campaign.  His 
favourite  topic  of  conversation  with  his  officers  was 
criticism  of  the  Napoleonic  campaigns.  I,  of  course,  only 
knew  of  this  from  hearsay,  as  we  seldom  saw  our  General. 
Generally  he  caught  us  up  midway  in  the  day's  march  in 
his  carriage,  drawn  by  a  troika.  Having  arrived  at  the 
quarters  for  the  night,  he  would  occupy  a  lodging  and 
stay  there  until  late  the  next  morning  and  again  catch  us 
up  during  the  day,  w^hen  the  men  would  always  remark 
on  the  particular  degree  of  purple  in  the  face  and  the 
hoarseness  accompanying  his  deafening  salute  to  us  : 

''  Health  to  you,  Starobieltzi  !" 

"  We  wish  Your  Excellency  health,"  the  men  would 
reply,  adding  to  themselves  :  "  Old  Bravo  is  off  for 
another  booze." 

And  the  General  would  go  ahead,  sometimes  without 
any  incident,  and  sometimes  bestowing  en  route  a  thun- 
derous "  head-washing  "  on  some  poor  company  com- 
mander. 

Noticing  that  the  battalion  had  halted,  the  General 
rushed  at  us  and  jumped  out  of  his  carriage  as  quickly  as 
his  corpulency  would  admit.     The  Major  went  up  to  him. 

"  Wliat's  this  ?  Why  have  you  halted  ?  Who  gave 
you  leave  ?" 

"  Your  Excellency,  the  road  is  under  water,  and  a  train 
is  expected  shortly  over  the  rails." 

"  Road  under  water  ?  Train  ?  Bosh  !  You  are  mak- 
ing old  women  of  the  men,  teaching  them  to  be  molly- 
coddles. Don't  halt  without  orders  !  Consider  yourself, 
sir,  under  arrest ..." 

"  Your  Excellency  ..." 

*'  Don't  answer  me  !" 

The  General  raised  his  eyes  threateningly  and  turned 
his  attention  on  another  victim. 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF    307 

"  Why,  what's  this  ?  Why  is  the  commander  of  the 
second  rifle  company  not  in  his  place  ?  Staff-Captain 
Ventzel,  come  here,  please  !" 

Ventzel  went  forward,  and  the  General  poured  a  torrent 
of  rage  on  him.  I  heard  how  Ventzel  tried  to  reply, 
raising  his  voice,  but  the  General  shouted  him  down,  and 
it  was  only  possible  to  guess  that  Ventzel  had  said  some- 
thing disrespectful. 

**  You  dare  to  reply  ?  To  be  impertinent  ?"  thun- 
dered the  General.  "  Hold  your  tongue !  Take  his 
sword  from  him.  Go  to  the  money-chest,  under  arrest  ! 
An  example  to  the  men.  .  .  .  Afraid  of  water  !  My  men, 
after  me  !     Remember  Suvoroff  !" 

The  General  went  rapidly  past  the  battalion  with  the 
cramped  gait  of  one  who  has  been  sitting  for  a  long  time 
in  a  carriage. 

"  Follow  me  !  Children  !  Remember  Suvoroff  !"  he 
repeated,  and  waded  in  his  patent-leather  jack-boots 
into  the  water.  The  Major,  with  a  malicious  expression 
on  his  face,  glanced  back  and  went  forward  with  the 
General.  The  battalion  moved  after  them.  At  first  the 
water  was  knee-high,  then  it  reached  the  waist,  then 
higher  and  higher.  The  tall  General  moved  freely,  but 
the  little  Major  was  already  striking  out  with  his  arms. 
The  men,  just  like  a  flock  of  sheep  when  crossing  a  stream, 
jostled  each  other  and  staggered  from  side  to  side  as  they 
pulled  their  feet  out  of  the  soft  clayey  bottom  in  which 
they  kept  sticking.  The  company  commanders  and 
the  battalion  Adjutant,  who  were  riding,  and  could  have, 
in  consequence,  crossed  over  very  comfortably,  seeing  the 
example  set  by  the  General,  followed  it,  dismounted,  and, 
leading  their  horses,  waded  into  the  muddy  water,  which 
had  been  churned  up  by  hundreds  of  soldiers'  feet.  Our 
company,  composed  of  the  tallest  men  in  the  battalion, 
crossed  with  comparative  comfort,  but  the  eighth  com- 
pany, which  was  marching  abreast  of  us,  and  was  com- 
posed of  undersized  men,  were  almost  up  to  their  ears  in 


3o8    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

the  water.  Some  of  them  even  began  to  choke  and  clutch 
at  us.  A  little  gipsy  soldier,  with  blanched  face  and 
terrified,  wide-opened  eyes,  seized  "  Uncle  "  Jitkoff  by 
the  neck  with  both  hands,  having  thrown  away  his  rifle. 
Luckily  for  the  gipsy,  somebody  seized  it  from  going  to 
the  bottom. 

Ten  sajenes  farther  on  the  water  became  shallower, 
and  everyone,  being  now  out  of  danger,  commenced  to 
scramble  out  as  quickly  as  possible,  pushing  and  swearing 
at  each  other.  Many  of  us  laughed,  but  it  was  no  laugh- 
ing matter  for  the  soldiers  of  the  eighth  company.  Many 
of  their  faces  were  blue  not  only  from  cold.  Behind  us 
pressed  the  riflemen. 

**  Now  then,  whipper-snappers,  scramble  out  !  They 
have  sunk  !"  they  cried. 

"  Very  easy  to  have  drowned,"  replied  the  eighth  com- 
pany. "  It  was  all  right  for  him  ;  he  only  wetted  his 
whiskers.  What  a  hero  !  People  could  be  drowned 
here." 

*'  You  should  have  sat  in  my  canteen.  I  would  have 
taken  you  over  dry." 

"  I  didn't  think  of  that,"  replied  the  little  soldier  good- 
humouredly  at  the  gibe. 

The  cause  of  all  this  bustle  having  already  succeeded 
in  freeing  his  feet  from  the  sticky  bottom,  and  having  got 
out  of  the  water,  was  standing  in  a  majestic  pose  on  the 
bank,  looking  at  the  struggling  mass  of  humanity  in  the 
water.  He  was  wet  to  the  skin,  and  had  in  reality  soaked 
himself  and  his  long  whiskers.  The  w^ater  was  trickling 
from  his  clothes.  His  polished  leather  top-boots  were 
bulging  with  water,  but  he  continued  to  shout  encourage- 
ment to  the  men. 

"  Forward,  my  children  !     Remember  Suvoroff  !" 

The  soaking  officers  with  gloomy  faces  were  crowd- 
ing around  him.  Amongst  them  was  Ventzel,  with  dis- 
torted face,  and  minus  his  sword.  Meanwhile  the 
General's    coachman,    having    reached    the    bank,    and 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF      309 

having  pushed  off  into  the  water,  sat  on  the  box 
with  a  huge  whip,  and  got  over  successfully,  a  little 
to  one  side  of  the  spot  where  he  had  crossed,  and 
where  the  water  scarcely  reached  the  axles  of  the 
carriage-wheel. 

"  That  is  where,  Your  Excellency,  we  should  have 
crossed  over,"  said  the  Major  quietly.  *'  Will  you  order 
the  men  to  dry  themselves  ?" 

"  Certainly,  certainly,  Sergei  Nicolaich,"  replied  the 
General  calmly.  The  cold  water  had  quenched  his  ardour. 
He  got  into  his  carriage,  sat  down ;  then  again  stood  up 
and  cried  out  at  the  top  of  his  extraordinarily  powerful 
voice  : 

"  Thank  you,  Starobieltzi  !     You  are  good  fellows." 

"  Pleased  to  try.  Your  Excellency  !"  replied  the  men 
in  salute  somewhat  confusedly.  And  the  dripping 
General  drove  off  ahead. 

The  sun  was  still  high.  There  were  only  five  more 
versts  to  go,  so  the  Major  made  a  prolonged  halt.  We 
undressed,  lit  fires,  dried  our  clothes,  boots,  knapsacks, 
and  pouches,  and  two  hours  afterwards  started  off  again, 
even  laughing  at  the  recollection  of  our  bath. 

"  And  so  old  Bravo  has  sent  Ventzel  off  under  arrest  !" 
said  Feodoroff. 

'*  A  good  job.  Let  him  march  a  day  or  two  with  the 
money-chest,"  came  the  reply  from  someone  in  the 
riflemen  company  behind  us. 

"  What's  that  to  do  with  you  ?" 

"  With  me  !  Not  only  with  me,  but  for  the  whole 
company  it  will  be  easier.  At  least  we  shall  have  a  rest 
for  a  couple  of  days.  We  can't  stick  him — that's  what 
it  is  to  do  with  me  !" 

**  Patience  brings  everything  about." 

"  Patience  is  all  right,  but  it  doesn't  always  bring 
everything,"  said  Jitkoff  in  his  usual  surly  tone.  "  If 
only  the  Turk  will  kill  him  !" 

"  And  you,  '  Uncle'  Jitkoff,  don't  despair.     You  have 


310      REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

to  think  about  our  no  longer  being  wet,  that  we  are 
marching  dry,  and  old  Bravo  is  riding  wet,"  said 
Feodoroff,  amidst  general  laughter. 


We  continued  to  march  parallel  with  the  railway. 
Trains  filled  with  men,  horses,  and  supplies  were  con- 
tinually passing  us.  The  men  looked  enviously  at  the 
goods  waggons  being  whirled  past  us,  through  the  open 
doors  of  which  were  to  be  seen  horses'  muzzles. 

'*  Eh  ?  But  what  luck  for  the  horses  !  Meanwhile  we 
have  to  walk." 

"  A  horse  is  stupid,  and  gets  thin,"  argued  Vasili 
Karpich.  ''  But  you  are  a  man,  and  can  look  after  your- 
self properly." 

Once,  when  we  were  halted,  a  Cossack  galloped  up  to 
the  Major  with  an  important  piece  of  news.  We  were 
ordered  to  fall  in  without  knapsacks  or  arms,  just  in  our 
vrhite  shirts.  None  of  us  knew  what  this  meant.  The 
officers  examined  us.  Ventzel,  as  usual,  was  shouting 
and  swearing,  tugging  at  badly-put-on  belts,  and  with 
kicks  ordering  men  to  adjust  their  shirts.  Then  they 
marched  us  to  the  bed  of  the  railway,  and  after  a  good 
deal  of  manoeuvring,  the  regiment  was  stretched  in  two 
ranks  along  the  route.  The  line  of  white  shirts  extended 
more  than  a  verst. 

*'  Children,"  shouted  the  Major,  "  His  Majesty  the 
Emperor  is  passing  by  !" 

And  we  commenced  to  await  the  Emperor.  Our 
division  was  an  outlying  one,  stationed  far  from  Peters- 
burg and  Moscow.  Barely  one-tenth  of  the  men  com- 
posing it  had  ever  seen  their  Tsar,  and  all  waited  the 
Imperial  train  impatiently.  Half  an  hour  passed  by,  and 
no  train.  The  men  were  allowed  to  sit  down,  and  began 
to  talk. 

"  Will  the  train  stop  ?"  asked  someone. 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF    311 

**  Don't  reckon  on  that  !  Stopping  for  every  regi- 
ment !  He  will  look  at  us  out  of  the  window,  and  that's 
good  enough  for  us." 

"  And  we  shall  not  distinguish  which  is  he.  There  are 
a  number  of  Generals  with  him." 

"  I  shall  know.     The  year  before  last  I  saw  him  at 

K as  close  as  that ;  "  and  the  soldier  stretched  out 

his  hand  to  show  how  close  he  had  been  to  the  Emperor. 

Finally,  after  two  hours'  expectancy,  smoke  appeared 
in  the  distance.  The  regiment  rose  and  took  up  its 
proper  dressing.  First  passed  the  train  with  the  servants 
and  kitchen.  The  cooks  and  their  assistants  in  white 
caps  looked  at  us  out  of  the  windows,  and  for  some 
reason  laughed.  About  200  sajenes  behind  came  the 
Imperial  train.  The  engine-driver,  seeing  the  regiment 
drawn  up,  slackened  speed,  and  the  carriages  slowly 
rumbled  past  before  eyes  greedily  searching  the  windows. 
But  aU  had  the  blinds  drawn.  A  Cossack  and  an  officer, 
standing  on  the  platform  of  the  last  carriage,  were  the 
sole  persons  on  the  train  whom  we  saw.  We  stood 
gazing  after  the  faster  and  faster  receding  train  for  another 
three  minutes,  and  then  returned  to  our  bivouac.  The 
men  were  disappointed,  and  expressed  their  disappoint- 
ment. 

*'  When  shall  we  ever  see  him  now  ?" 

But  we  were  soon  to  see  him.     They  told  us  that  the 
Emperor  would  review  us  before  the  town  of  Ploeshti. 

We  marched  past  before  him,  as  on  the  march,  in  the 
same  dirty  white  shirts  and  trousers,  in  the  same  browned 
and  dusty  boots,  with  the  same  ugly  strapped-on  knap- 
sacks, ration-bags,  and  bottles  on  string.  The  soldier  had 
nothing  of  the  young  dandy  or  dashing  hero  in  appear- 
ance. Each  much  more  closely  resembled  a  simple 
common  moujik.  Only  the  rifle  and  ammunition- 
pouches  showed  that  this  moujik  was  off  to  the  war. 
We  were  drawn  up  in  columns  of  fours,  as  we  could  not 
have  marched  through  the  narrow  streets  of  the  town  in 


312    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

any  other  formation.  I  marched  by  the  side,  and  tried 
above  all  not  to  get  out  of  step  and  to  keep  my  dressing, 
and  reflected  that  if  the  Emperor  and  his  suite  chanced 
to  be  standing  on  my  side,  I  should  pass  close  to  him, 
right  under  his  eyes.  Chancing  to  glance  at  Jitkoff 
marching  abreast  of  me,  at  his  face,  as  always,  severe  and 
sombre,  but  now  flushed,  I  became  infected  with  the 
general  excitement,  and  my  heart  beat  quicker,  and  I 
suddenly  felt  that  it  all  depended  on  us  as  to  how  the 
Emperor  regarded  us.  I  felt  much  the  same  sort  of  sen- 
sation the  first  time  I  came  under  fire. 

The  men  marched  faster  and  faster,  the  pace  became 
longer  and  the  gait  freer  and  more  firm.     There  was  no 
need  for  me  to  adapt  myself  to  the  general  pace.     All 
tiredness  had  vanished  just  as  if  we  had  all  grown  wings 
which  were  bearing  us  forward  to  that  point  whence 
already  we  could  hear  the  crash  of  bands  and  deafening 
hurrahs.     I  don't  remember  the  streets  through  which 
we  passed,  nor  the  people  in  them,  or  whether  they  looked 
at  us.     I  remember  only  the  excitement  which  possessed 
me,  and  the  consciousness  of  the  compelling,  tremendous 
strength  of  the  mass  of  which  I  was  a  member.      One 
felt  that  nothing  was  impossible  for  this  mass,  that  the 
torrent  of  which  I  was  a  struggling  component  part  could 
know  no  obstacle,  but  could  smash,  extirpate,  destroy 
all  in  its  path,  and  each  one  thougth  that  He,  past  whom 
this  torrent  was  streaming,  could,  with  one  word,  by  one 
wave  of  the  hand,  alter  its  courses,  turn  it  back,  or  again 
hurl  it  at  terrifying  obstacles.     Each  one  wished  to  find 
in  the  word  of  this  one  man,  and  in  the  movement  of  his 
hand,  the  unknown  something  which  was  sending  us  to 
death.     *'  Thou  art  sending  us  " — each  one  thought — 
*'  and  we  are  giving  thee  our  lives.     Look  at  us  and  rest 
assured.     We  are  ready  to  die." 

And  He  knew  we  were  ready  to  die  for  him.  He  saw 
the  terrifying  rows  of  determined  men  V\-hich  were  passing 
him  almost  at  the  double,   the  men  of  his  own  poor 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF     313 

country,  poorly  clad,  simple  soldiers,  they  were  all  going 
to  death  calm  and  free  of  responsibility. 

He  was  sitting  on  a  grey  horse  which  stood  motionless 
with  ears  pricked  alert  at  the  music  and  the  mad,  en- 
thusiastic   shouts.     A    brilliant    suite   was    round    him. 
But  I  do  not  remember  any  of  the  brilliant  crowd  of 
horsemen  excepting  that  one  man  on  a  grey  horse  in 
simple  uniform   and  white  cap.     I  remember  his   pale 
worn  face — worn  with  the  consciousness  of  the  weighty 
decision  taken.     I  remember  how  tears  like  big  raindrops 
were  running  down  his  cheeks,  falling  on  the  dark  cloth 
of  his  uniform  in  bright  glistening  splashes.     I  remember 
the    trembling   lips   murmuring    something    which   was 
doubtless  a  welcome  to  the  thousands  of  young  lives 
about  to  perish  and  for  whom  he  was  weeping.     All  this 
appeared  and  disappeared,  lighted  up  with  the  rapidity 
of  lightning,  as  I,  breathless,  not  from  running,  but  from 
mad,  delirious  enthusiasm,  doubled  past  him  with  rifle 
raised  high  in  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  waving  my 
cap  above  my  head,  yelling  a  deafening  hurrah,  which, 
however,  I  could  not  even  hear  in  the  general  roar. 

AU  this  flashed  up  and  disappeared.  The  dusty  streets 
bathed  in  a  scorching  heat,  the  exhausting  excitement, 
the  soldiers  worn  out  by  excitement  and  from  having 
doubled  for  a  distance  of  nearly  one  verst  under  a  baking 
sun.  The  shouts  of  the  officers  calling  on  the  men  to 
keep  formation  and  in  step — that  is  all  I  saw  and  heard 
five  minutes  later. 

After  we  had  marched  a  further  two  versts  through  the 
stifling  town  and  reached  the  common  on  which  we  were 
to  bivouac,  I  threw  myself  to  the  ground,  utterly  worn 
out,  body  and  soul. 

VI 

Difficult  marches,  dust,  heat,  fatigue,  bleeding  feet' 
brief  halts  by  day,  deathlike  slumber  by  night,  the  hated 
bugle  waking  us  at  scarce  dawn,  and  all  the  time  fields — 


314    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

fields.  Not  like  those  in  our  own  country,  but  covered 
with  high,  green,  loudly-rustling,  long,  silky  leaves  of 
maize  or  wheat,  already  in  places  turning  yellow. 

The  same  faces,  the  same  regimental  life,  the  same 
topics  of  conversation  and  tales  of  home,  of  the  halt  in 
the  provincial  town,  and  criticisms  of  the  officers. 

Of  the  future  we  seldom  and  unwillingly  spoke.  We 
only  knew  vaguely  that  we  were  going  to  war,  notwith- 
standing the  fact  that  we  had  halted  not  far  from  Kishineff 
for  a  whole  six  months,  although  quite  ready  to  march. 
It  would  have  been  possible  during  that  time  to  have 
explained  why  we  were  preparing  for  war,  but  I  suppose 
it  was  not  considered  necessary.  I  remember  a  soldier 
one  day  asked  me  : 

"  Vladimir  Mikhailich,  shall  we  soon  arrive  in  Bokhara  ?" 

I  thought  at  first  that  I  had  not  heard  correctly,  but 
when  he  repeated  the  question  I  replied  that  Bokhara 
was  beyond  two  seas,  four  thousand  versts  away,  and  we 
v/ere  never  likely  to  get  there. 

''  No,  Mikhailich,  don't  talk  like  that.  One  of  the 
regimental  clerks  has  told  me.  He  says  that  we  shall 
cross  the  Danube,  and  then  we  shall  be  in  Bokhara." 

"  Not  Bokhara — Bulgaria  !"  I  exclaimed. 

**  Well,  Bokhara  or  Bulgaria,  whichever  you  call  it, 
isn't  it  all  the  same  ?" 

And  he  said  no  more,  evidently  dissatisfied. 

We  only  knew  that  we  were  going  to  kill  the  Turk 
because  he  had  shed  much  blood.  And  we  wanted  to  kill 
him,  not  so  much  for  the  blood  he  had  shed  of  persons 
not  known  to  us,  but  because  he  had  upset  so  many 
people  that,  through  it,  we  were  forced  to  experience  a 
hard  campaign  ("  for  which  we  are  going  a  thousand 
versts  to  him,  the  unclean  beast  !").  Those  on  furlough 
and  reservists  were  obliged  to  leave  home  and  family, 
and  all  go  together  somewhere  under  shell  and  bullet. 
The  Turk  was  pictured  as  a  rioter  and  ringleader,  whom 
it  was  necessary  to  pacify  and  subdue. 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF    315 

We  occupied  ourselves  much  more  with  our  family, 
battalion,  and  company  affairs  than  in  the  war.  In  our 
company  all  was  quiet  and  peaceful.  But  matters  went 
from  bad  to  worse  with  the  rifle  company.  Ventzel  did 
not  grow  more  sensible.  Secret  indignation  grew,  and 
after  one  incident,  which,  even  now,  five  years  after- 
wards, I  cannot  remember  without  becoming  worked  up, 
it  developed  into  regular  hatred. 

We  had  just  passed  through  a  town,  and  had  come 
out  on  to  a  field  where  the  first  regiment,  marching  ahead 
of  us,  had  already  pitched  its  tents.  The  camp  was  a 
good  one.  On  one  side  was  a  river,  on  the  other  an  old 
clean  oak  grove,  probably  a  resort  of  the  local  inhabi- 
tants. It  was  a  nice  warm  evening.  The  sun  was  setting. 
We  halted  and  piled  arms.  I  and  Jitkoff  began  to  pitch 
our  shelter.  We  had  fixed  up  the  supports.  I  was 
holding  one  edge  of  the  sheet,  and  Jitkoff  was  hammering 
in  a  peg  with  a  stick. 

''  Tighter,  hold  it  tighter,  Mikhailich."  (He  had  for 
some  days  past  commenced  to  address  me  in  this  intimate 
way.)     "  There,  that's  right." 

But  at  this  moment  from  behind  us  there  came  some 
strange  measured  smacking  sounds.     I  turned  round. 

The  riflemen  were  standing  in  line.  Ventzel,  shouting 
out  something  hoarsely,  was  hitting  one  of  the  soldiers 
in  the  face.  The  man,  with  a  face  pale  as  death,  holding 
his  rifle  at  the  order  and  not  daring  to  avoid  the  blows, 
was  trembling  all  over.  Ventzel' s  thin,  small  body 
swayed  with  the  force  of  the  blows  he  was  dealing  with 
both  hands,  first  the  right  and  then  the  left.  Everyone 
around  was  silent — only  the  smack  was  heard  and  the 
hoarse  muttering  of  the  infuriated  commander.  Every- 
thing went  dark,  and  began  to  swim  before  me.  I  made 
a  movement.  Jitkoff  understood  it,  and  tugged  with  all 
his  strength  at  the  tent  sheet. 

"  Hang  on  to  it,  d n  you,  you  awkward "  he 

shouted,   showering    the  most  abusive  epithets  on  me. 


3i6    REMIiNISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

"  Have  your  hands  withered  or  what  ?     Where  are  you 
looking  ?     Have  you  never  seen  it  before  ?" 

The  blows  continued  to  resound.  Blood  was  trickling 
from  the  man's  upper  lip  and  chin.  At  last  he  fell, 
Ventzel  turned  round,  and  glaring  full  at  the  whole 
company,  shouted  : 

"  If  anyone  else  dares  to  smoke,  I  will  treat  the  black- 
guard worse.  Lift  him  up,  wash  his  ugly  face,  and  put 
him  in  the  tent.  Let  him  lie  there.  Pile  arms  !"  he 
commanded. 

His  hands  Vv-ere  trembling,  red,  swollen,  and  covered 
with  blood.  He  took  out  a  handkerchief,  wiped  his 
hands,  and  left  the  men,  who  had  piled  their  arms  and 
were  dangerously  silent.  Several  of  them,  muttering 
amongst  themselves,  collected  around  the  bruised  victim, 
and  raised  him.  Ventzel  was  walking  with  a  nervous, 
worn-out  gait.  He  was  pale  and  his  eyes  glistened.  The 
twitching  of  his  muscles  told  how  hard  his  teeth  were  set. 
He  went  past  us,  and,  meeting  my  searching  look,  he 
smiled  with  his  thin  lips,  only  in  an  unnatural,  derisive 
manner,  and,  muttering  something,  went  on. 

**  Bloodsucker  !"  said  Jitkoff,  with  hatred  in  his  voice. 
*'  And  you  too,  sir.  .  .  .  What  did  you  want  to  go  there 
for  ?  Do  you  want  to  be  shot  ?  Wait  a  little,  and  they 
will  get  even  with  him." 

"  Will  they  complain  ?"  I  asked.     "  If  so,  to  whom  ?" 

"  No,  there  will  be  no  complaint.  We  also  will  do 
something." 

And  he  muttered  something  almost  to  himself.  I 
dared  not  understand  him.  Feodoroff,  who  had  already 
been  amongst  the  riflemen  and  asked  what  it  was  all 
about,  came  back  to  us. 

"  He  bullies  the  m.en  without  any  reason,"  he  said. 
*'  This  little  soldier,  Matushkin,  was  smoking  on  the 
march.  When  they  halted  he  ordered  his  rifle,  keeping 
the  cigarette  between  his  fingers.  Evidently,  and  un- 
luckily for  him,   he  forgot  all  about  it.    '  But  Ventzel 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF    317 

noticed  it.  Brute,  beast  !"  he  added  sorrowfully,  laying 
himself  down  in  the  tent,  which  was  now  ready.  "  The 
cigarette  was  out.  It's  quite  clear  the  poor  beggar  had 
forgotten." 

In  the  course  of  a  few  days  we  marched  into  Alexandria, 
where  an  enormous  number  of  troops  had  collected. 
Whilst  still  coming  down  the  high  mountain,  we  saw  an 
enormous  expanse  dotted  with  white  tents  and  the  black 
figures  of  men,  long  horse  lines  and  glistening  rows  of 
guns  with  their  green  carriages  and  limbers.  Whole 
crowds  of  officers  and  men  were  wandering  through  the 
streets  of  the  town.  Lugubrious,  mournful  Hungarian 
music,  mingling  with  the  clatter  of  dishes  and  loud  con- 
versation, came  from  the  open  windows  of  crowded  and 
dirty  hotels.  The  little  shops  were  crammed  with  Russian 
purchasers.  Our  soldiers,  Roumanians,  foreigners,  and 
Jews  shouted  loudly  at  each  other,  without  making 
themselves  understood.  Quarrels  as  to  the  rate  of  ex- 
change on  the  paper  rouble  could  be  heard  at  every  step. 

*'  Where  is  the  Post-Office  ?"  with  exaggerated  cour- 
tesy and  touching  the  peak  of  his  kepi  with  his  hand, 
inquires  of  a  smartly  -  dressed  Roumanian  an  officer 
equipped  with  a  "  Soldier's  Translator,"  a  little  book 
with  which  the  troops  had  been  supplied.  The  Rou- 
manian explains.  The  officer  turns  over  the  pages  of 
the  book,  looking  for  a  translation  of  the  unintelligible 
words,  and  understands  nothing,  but  still  thanks  him 
politely.  "  Tfy,  you  comrades  !  What  a  people  !  Our 
priests  and  our  churches,  and  yet  you  can't  understand 
a  word  !" 

"  Will  you  take  a  silver  rouble  for  this  ?"  a  soldier 
shouts  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  holding  up  a  shirt  in  his 
hands  to  a  Roumanian  trading  at  an  open  stall.  "  How 
much  for  the  shirt  ?     Five  francs  ?     Four  francs  ?" 

He  draws  out  the  money,  shows  it,  and  the  business 
ends  in  mutual  satisfaction. 

"  Make  way,  make  way,  chums,  the  General's  coming." 


3i8    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

A  tall,  young-looking  General,  in  a  smart  jacket  and 
high  boots,  with  a  cossack  whip  hanging  by  its  lash  over 
his   shoulder,    came  rapidly   along   the  street.     Several 
paces  behind  him  was  an  orderly,  a  little  Asiatic  in  a 
coloured  robe  and  turban,  with  an  enormous  sword  and 
a  revolver  at  his  belt.     The  General,  holding  his  head 
well  up,  and  with  good-natured  indifference  looking  at 
the  men  as  they  saluted  and  made  way  for  him,  passed 
into  an  hotel.     Here  I,  Ivan  Platonich,  and  Stebelkoff 
were  ensconced  in  a  comer  swallowing  down  some  local 
dish  composed  of  red  pepper  and  meat.     The  dilapidated 
room,  laid  out  with  little  tables,  was  full  of  people.     The 
clatter  of  dishes,  the  popping  of  corks,  and  the  hum  of 
sober  and  drunken  voices,  were  all  hidden  by  the  orchestra, 
which   was  seated   in  a  kind  of   alcove   decorated  with 
red    stuff    curtains.     There  were   five   musicians.      Two 
violins  were  scraping  away  furiously.     A  'cello  was  boom- 
ing on  two  or  three  notes,  whilst  a  double-bass  roared. 
But  all  these  instruments  merely  formed  an  accompani- 
ment for  a  fifth.     A  swarthy,  curly-haired  Hungarian, 
almost  a  boy,  sat  in  front  of  all.     From  inside  the  wide 
velvet  collar  of  his  coat  there  projected  a  strange-looking 
instrument,  a  wooden  flute  of  the  precise  pattern  that 
Pan  and  the  Fauns  are  always  depicted  as  playing.     It 
consisted  of  a  row  of  uneven  wooden  pipes,  so  fastened 
together  that  their  open  ends  rested  against  the  lips  of 
the  artist.     The  Hungarian,  turning  his  head  first  to  one 
side  then  to  another,  blew  into  these  pipes,  producing 
powerful,  melodious  sounds,  not  unlike  those  of  a  flute 
or  clarionet.      He  executed  the  most  tricky  and  difficult 
passages  by  shaking  and  turning  his  head.     His  black 
greasy  locks  danced  on  his  head  and  fell  over  his  forehead. 
His  red  face  was  covered  with  perspiration,  and  the  veins 
stood  out  on  his  neck.     It  was  evidently  a  difficult  job.  . . . 
Against  the  discordant  accompaniment  of  the  stringed 
instruments,  the  sound  of  the  pan-pipes  stood  out  sharply, 
clearly,  and  wildly  beautiful. 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF     319 

The  General  took  his  place  at  a  table  around  which 
were  some  officers  knowTi  to  him,  bowed  to  all  who  had 
risen  at  his  entry,  and  loudly  said,  '*  Be  seated,  gentle- 
men," which  applied  to  the  rank  and  file  present.  We 
finished  our  dinner  in  silence.  Ivan  Platonich  ordered  a 
bottle  of  red  Roumanian  wine,  and  after  the  second  bottle, 
when  his  face  had  taken  on  a  jovial  expression  and  his 
cheeks  and  nose  had  become  brightly  tinted,  he  turned 
to  me  : 

"  You,  young  man,  tell  me.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember 
when  we  had  the  big  halt  ?" 

"  I  do,  Ivan  Platonich." 

*'  Did  you  speak  with  Ventzel  then  ?" 

"  I  did." 

*'  Did  you  seize  him  by  the  arm  ?"  inquired  the  Captain, 
in  a  pretematurally  solemn  tone.  And  when  I  replied  I 
had  done  so  he  gave  a  prolonged  deep  sigh  and  began  to 
blink  in  an  agitated  manner. 

''  You  did  wrong  .  .  .  you  acted  stupidly.  Look  here, 
I  don't  want  to  reprimand  you.  You  did  very  well  .  .  . 
that  is,  it  was  contrary  to  all  discipline.  .  .  .  Oh,  damn  it ! 
what  am  I  saying  ?     You  will  excuse  me.  ..." 

He  remained  silent,  gazing  at  the  floor  and  breathing 
heavily.  I  also  was  silent.  Ivan  Platonich  gulped  down 
half  a  glass  and  then  smacked  me  on  the  knee. 

'*  Give  me  a  promise  that  you  will  not  do  such  a  thing 
again.  I  quite  understand.  ...  It  is  difficult  for  a  new- 
comer. But  what  good  can  you  do  by  it  ?  He  is  such 
a  mad  dog,  this  Ventzel.     WeU,  look  here.  ..." 

Ivan  Platonich  evidently  could  not  find  the  right  word, 
and  after  a  long  pause  again  had  recourse  to  his  glass. 

"  That  is  .  .  .  you  see  .  .  .  he  is  a  good  chap  really.  It 
is  a  kind  of  .  .  .  deuce  knows  what — a  kind  of  madness  of 
his.  You  yourself  saw  how  I,  too,  knocked  one  of  the 
men  about  a  little  not  long  ago.  But  if  the  idiot  won't 
understand  his  mistakes.  ,  .  .  You  know  he  is  such  a 
wooden  .  .  .     But  I,  Vladimir  Mikhailich,  act  like  a  father 


320     REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

to  them.  I  swear  I  have  no  maHce  against  them,  even 
though  I  do  flare  up  sometimes.  But  as  for  Ventzel,  it 
has  got  into  his  system.  Hey,  you  !" — he  shouted  to  one 
of  the  Roumanian  waiters — "  another  bottle.  .  .  .  And 
some  day  he  will  be  court-martialled  or  even  worse.  The 
men  will  get  revengeful,  and  the  first  time  under  fire.  .  .  . 
It  will  be  a  pity,  because  all  the  same  he  is  a  good  man, 
as  you  know.     And  even  a  warm-hearted  fellow." 

"  What  !"  Stebelkoff  exclaimed.  "  What  warm- 
hearted man  would  act  like  he  does  ?" 

**  You  should  have  seen,  Ivan  Platonich,  what  your 
warm-hearted  man  did  the  other  day." 

And  I  told  the  Captain  how  Ventzel  had  knocked  about 
one  of  the  men  for  smoking  in  the  ranks. 

"  There  you  are,  there  you  are.  ..." 

Ivan  Platonich  turned  red,  puffed,  stopped  short,  and 
again  commenced  to  talk.  "  But  for  all  that  he  is  not  a 
beast.  Whose  men  are  best  fed  ?  Ventzel's.  Which  are 
the  best-trained  men  ?  Ventzel's.  In  which  company 
are  there  practically  no  fines  ?  Who  never  sends  his  men 
up  for  court-martial,  unless  a  man  does  something  very 
bad  ?  Always  Ventzel.  If  it  were  not  for  this  unhappy 
weakness  of  his  the  men  would  carry  him  shoulder  high." 

"  Have  you  spoken  about  it  to  him,  Ivan  Platonich  ?" 

"  I  have  spoken  and  argued  a  dozen  times.  What  can 
you  do  with  him  ?  '  Either  they  are  soldiers  or  militia, ' 
he  says.  Those  are  the  silly  kind  of  speeches  he  makes. 
*  War,*  says  he,  *  is  so  cruel  that  even  if  I  am  cruel  with 
the  men  it  is  but  a  drop  in  the  ocean.  .  .  .'  *  They,'  he 
says,  *  are  in  such  a  low  state  of  development.  .  .  .'  In  a 
word,  the  deuce  knows  what  he  doesn't  say.'l  All  the  same 
he  is  an  excellent  chap.  He  doesn't  drink  or  play  cards. 
He  is  a  conscientious  soldier,  helps  his  old  father  and  a 
sister,  and  is  a  splendid  companion.  Moreover,  he  is  the 
best-read  man  in  the  regiment.  And  mark  my  word,  he 
will  either  be  court-martialled,  or  they  " — he  nodded  his 
head  towards  the  window — "  will  deal  with  him.     It's  a 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF     321 

bad  job.  And  that's  how  the  matter  stands,  my  most 
worthy  trooper." 

Ivan  Platonich  gave  me  a  kindly  pat  on  my  shoulder- 
strap  and  then  dived  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  brought 
out  a  tobacco-pouch,  and  commenced  to  roll  a  gigantic 
cigarette,  which  he  stuck  into  an  enormous  amber  mouth- 
piece on  which  was  the  inscription  **  Caucasus  "  in  oxidized 
silver.  Sticking  the  holder  into  his  mouth,  he  silently 
pushed  the  pouch  towards  me.  We  were  all  three  smok- 
ing, and  the  Captain  recommenced  : 

''  Sometimes  it  is  impossible  not  to  hit  them.  They 
are  really  like  children.     Do  you  know  Balunoff  ?" 

Stebelkoff  suddenly  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter,  Stebelkoff  ?"  grunted  Ivan 
Platonich.  '*  Balunoff  is  an  old  soldier  who  has  often 
been  punished.  He  has  served  twenty  years,  and  yet 
they  will  not  let  him  go  on  account  of  his  various  offences. 
Well,  this  rascal  once  .  .  .  You  weren't  with  us  then. 
When  we  were  leaving  a  village  near  Kishineff  an  order 
was  given  to  inspect  all  the  extra  pairs  of  boots.  I  drew 
the  men  up  in  line,  and  walking  behind  them  to  see  if 
any  of  the  boot-tops  were  sticking  out  of  the  knapsacks, 
saw  that  Balunoff  had  none.  'Where  are  your  boots  ?' 
'  I  have  put  them  inside  my  knapsack  for  safety, 
sir.'  *  That's  a  lie.'  'Not  at  all,  sir.  They  are  in 
my  knapsack  so  as  not  to  g&i  wet,'  the  blackguard 
replied. 

"  '  Take  off  your  knapsack  and  open  it.  I  noticed  he 
didn't  open  it,  but  dragged  the  tops  of  the  boots  from 
under  the  cover. 

"  '  Open  it.'  'I  can  take  them  out  without  opening  it, 
sir.' " 

"  However,  I  made  him  open  the  knapsack,  and  what 
do  you  think  ?  He  dragged  a  live  sucking-pig  by  the 
ears  out  of  it.  Its  snout  was  tied  up  with  string  so  that 
it  shouldn't  squeak.  With  his  right  hand  at  the  salute 
he  stood  and  grinned,  and  with  his  left  hand  held  the  pig. 


322     REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

He  had  stolen  it,  the  rascal,  from  the  Moldavians.  Well, 
of  course  I  hit  him,  but  not  hard." 

Stebelkoff  roared  with  laughter,  and,  scarcely  able  to 
speak,  said  :  ''  Yes  .  .  .  and  do  you  know,  Ivanoff,  what 
he  hit  him  with  ?  .  .  .     With  the  pig  !" 

"  Yes,  but  couldn't  you  have  avoided  that,  Ivan 
Platonich  ?" 

"  Oh  you  !  Upon  my  word,  it  makes  me  tired  to  listen 
to  you.     I  couldn't  court-martial  him  for  it,  could  I  ?" 


VII 

On  the  night  of  the  14  th  to  15  th  of  June  Feodoroff  woke  me. 

"  Mikhailich,  do  you  hear  ?" 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

''  Firing.     They  are  crossing  the  Danube." 

I  began  to  listen.  A  strong  wind  was  blowing,  driving 
before  it  lowering  black  clouds  which  hid  the  moon.  It 
blew  against  the  canvas  of  our  tents,  making  them  flap, 
whistled  through  the  guy-ropes,  and  made  a  faint  sighing 
sound  through  the  piles  of  arms.  Through  these  sounds 
could  be  heard  occasional  deep  reports. 

"  Many  are  being  killed  now,"  whispered  Feodoroff  with 
a  sigh.  "  Will  they  order  us  forward  or  not  ?  What  do 
you  think  ?     It  sounds  like  thunder." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  only  a  thunderstorm  ?" 

"No,  it  is  so  regular.  Listen,  do  you  hear  them  one 
after  another  ?" 

The  booming  was  certainly  very  regular  in  its  intervals. 
I  crawled  out  of  the  tent  and  gazed  in  the  direction  of  the 
sounds.  No  flashes  of  flame  were  visible.  Sometimes  a 
light  appeared  to  be  visible  to  the  straining  eyes  in  the 
direction  whence  the  reports  were  coming,  but  it  was  only 
fancy. 

At  last  it  has  come,  I  thought. 

And  I  tried  to  picture  to  myself  what  was  happening 
in  the  darkness  there.     I  imagined  a  wide  black  river  with 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF     323 

precipitous  banks,  utterly  unlike  the  real  Danube  as  I 
afterwards  saw  it.  Hundreds  of  boats  are  crossing. 
These  measured,  frequent  shots  are  at  them.  Will  many 
of  them  escape  ?  A  cold  shiver  ran  down  my  back. 
"  Would  I  like  to  be  there  ?"  I  asked  myself  involuntarily. 

I  gazed  at  the  sleeping  camp.  All  was  quiet.  In  the 
intervals  between  the  distant  thunder  of  guns  and  the 
noise  of  the  wind  could  be  heard  the  heavy  breathing  of 
the  men.  And  I  had  a  sudden  passionate  longing  that  all 
this  should  not  take  place,  that  the  march  should 
continue,  that  all  these  soundly  sleeping  men  and  with 
them  myself  should  not  be  obliged  to  go  where  the  firing 
was  taking  place. 

Sometimes  the  cannonade  became  heavier.  Sometimes 
I  heard  confusedly  a  less  loud  deep  noise.  They  are 
firing  volleys,  I  thought,  not  knowing  that  we  were  still 
twenty  versts  from  the  Danube  and  that  a  painfully 
strained  imagination  was  creating  these  sounds.  But 
though  imaginary,  they  roused,  nevertheless,  quickened 
fancy,  causing  it  to  picture  fearful  scenes.  In  imagination 
I  heard  the  cries  and  groans,  I  saw  thousands  of  human 
beings  falling,  and  heard  the  desperate  hoarse  hurrahs. 
I  pictured  the  bayonet  charge,  the  carnage.  And  if  beaten 
oft,  it  will  all  be  for  nothing  ! 

Grey  dawn  commenced  in  the  dark  east.  The  wind 
began  to  die  away.  The  clouds  parted,  disclosing  stars 
waning  in  the  paling  heavens.  It  grew  lighter.  Some- 
body in  the  camp  awoke  and,  hearing  the  sounds  of  battle, 
aroused  the  others.  They  spoke  little  and  quietly.  The 
unknown  had  approached  closely  to  us.  No  one  knew 
what  the  morrow  would  bring.  No  one  cared  to  think  or 
speak  of  it. 

I  slept  until  daylight  and  awoke  rather  late.  The 
cannon  continued  to  rumble  deeply,  and,  although  no 
news  had  come  from  the  Danube,  there  were  rumours 
amongst  us,  each  one  more  improbable  than  the  other. 
Some  said  that  we  had  already  crossed  and  were  pursuing 


324     REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

the  Turks,  others  said  the  attempt  to  cross  had  failed  and 
whole  regiments  had  been  destroyed. 

'*  Some  had  been  drowned,  others  had  been  shot,"  said 
someone. 

"  And  you  are  lying,"  interrupted  Vassili  Karpich. 

"  Why  am  I  lying,  if  it  is  true  ?" 

"  True  !     Who  told  you  ?" 

"  What  ?" 

"  The  truth  ?     Where  did  you  hear  it  ?" 

**  We  all  know.     The  firing  goes  on  and  nothing  more." 

"  All  say  it.  A  Cossack  has  been  to  the  General, 
and  .  .  ." 

*'  Cossack  !  Did  you  see  him  ?  What  is  he  like,  this 
Cossack  ?" 

*'  An  ordinary  Cossack  .  .  .  just  as  he  ought  to  look." 

"  As  he  ought  to  !  What  a  tongue  you  have  got — 
just  like  an  old  woman.  Better  to  keep  your  mouth  shut. 
No  one  has  been,  so  no  one  could  know." 

I  went  to  Ivan  Platonich.  The  officers  were  sitting 
fully  equipped  and  ready,  with  their  revolvers  fastened 
to  their  waist-belts.  Ivan  Platonich,  as  usual,  was  red, 
puffing,  and  breathing  heavily,  and  was  wiping  [his  neck 
with  a  dirty  handkerchief.  Stebelkoff  was  excited,  bright, 
and  for  some  reason  had  pomaded  his  usually  drooping 
moustaches  so  that  they  stuck  out  in  pointed  ends. 

"  Look  at  our  Lieutenant  !  He  has  got  himself  up  for 
action,"  said  Ivan  Platonich,  winking  at  him.  "  Ah,  my 
dear  chap,  I  am  sorry  for  you.  We  shall  have  no  such 
moustaches  in  our  mess  !  They  will  do  for  you,  Stebel- 
koff," said  the  Captain  jokingly.  *'  Well,  you  are  not 
afraid  ?" 

"  I  shall  try  not  to  be,"  said  Stebelkoff  in  a  brave 
voice. 

"  Well,  and  you,  you  warrior,  is  it  terrifying  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Ivan  Platonich.  . .  .  Has  nothing  been 
heard  from  there  ?" 

"  Nothing.     The  Lord  only  knows  what  is  happening 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF     325 

there."  Ivan  Platonich  sighed  deeply.  *'  We  move  off 
in  an  hour's  time,"  he  added  after  a  short  pause. 

The  fly  of  the  tent  opened,  and  the  Adjutant  Lukin 
poked  his  head  in.     He  looked  very  serious  and  pale. 

"  You  here,  Ivanoff  ?  Orders  have  been  given  to  swear 
you  in.  .  .  .  Not  now,  but  when  we  move  off.  Ivan 
Platonich,  a  fifth  packet  of  cartridges  to  the  men." 

He  refused  to  come  in  and  sit  down,  saying  that  he  had 
much  to  do,  and  went  off  somewhere.     I  also  left. 

About  twelve  o'clock  dinners  were  served.  The  men 
ate  little.  After  dinner  we  were  ordered  to  remove  our 
sight-protectors  (leather  covers)  from  our  rifles  ana  extra 
ammunition  was  issued.  The  men  began  to  prepare  for 
action.  They  commenced  to  examine  their  knapsacks 
and  throw  away  anything  superfluous.  Tom  shirts  and 
drawers,  various  kinds  of  rags,  old  boots,  brushes,  greasy 
handbooks — all  were  thrown  away.  Some  of  the  men 
appeared  to  have  brought  a  quantity  of  useless  things  in 
their  knapsacks  as  far  as  the  Danube.  I  saw  a  "  schelkun  " 
— a  small  piece  of  wood  used  in  time  of  peace  before 
parades  and  reviews  for  polishing  kit-straps — lying  on  the 
ground,  heavy  stone  pomade  jars,  all  sorts  of  small  boxes 
and  bits  of  boards,  and  even  a  whole  boot-tree. 

"  Go  on  ;  throw  away.  It  will  be  easier  marching.  We 
shall  not  want  them  to-morrow." 

"  Five  hundred  versts  I  have  carried  you  .  .  .  and  what 
for  ?"  argued  Lutikoff,  examining  some  rag.  *'  I  can't 
take  you  with  me." 

It  became  the  fashion  that  day  to  throw  away  things 
and  to  clean  out  knapsacks.  When  v/e  left  the  camp  it 
showed  up  in  the  dark  background  of  the  Steppe  as  a 
quadrangular  space  dotted  Math  multi-coloured  rags  and 
other  articles. 

Before  marching,  when  the  regiment  was  already 
standing  waiting  the  word  of  command,  several  officers 
and  our  young  regimental  chaplain  collected  in  front.  I 
was  called  out  of  the  ranks  with  four  "  volunteers  "  from 


326     REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

other  regiments.  All  had  enlisted  for  the  campaign. 
Having  handed  over  our  rifles  to  neighbours,  we  went 
forward  and  stood  near  the  colours.  My  unknown  com- 
rades were  in  a  state  of  agitation,  and  I,  too,  felt  my  heart 
beating  faster  than  usual. 

"  Take  hold  of  the  colours,"  said  the  battalion  com- 
mandant. The  colour-bearer  lowered  the  colour  and 
others  of  the  colour-party  removed  the  case.  An  old 
faded  green  silk  fabric  unfolded  to  the  wind.  We  stood 
around  it,  and,  grasping  the  pole  with  one  hand  and 
holding  the  other  aloft,  we  repeated  the  words  of  the 
chaplain,  as  he  read  out  the  ancient  military  oath  of 
Peter's  time.  They  recalled  to  me  what  Vassili  Karpich 
had  said  on  our:  first  march.  Where  does  it  come  in  ? 
thought  I,  and  after  a  long  list  of  the  occasions  and  places 
on  and  in  which  His  Imperial  Majesty  had  served,  I  heard 
these  words  :  "  Do  not  spare  your  life."  We  five  all 
repeated  them  in  one  voice,  and,  glancing  at  the  rows  of 
gloomy  men  ready  for  action,  I  felt  that  they  were  no 
empty  words. 

We  returned  to  our  places.  The  regiment  stirred,  and 
dissolving  into  a  long  column,  set  off  with  forced  step 
for  the  Danube.  The  firing  which  we  had  heard  had  now 
ceased. 

:{(  ^  :{:  H:  ^ 

As  through  a  dream  I  remember  that  march.  The  dust 
raised  by  the  horses  of  Cossack  regiments  as  they  overtook 
us,  the  broad  steppes  sloping  down  to  the  Danube,  the  op- 
posite bank  showing  up  blue,  fifteen  versts  away.  The 
fatigue,  heat,  and  the  jostling  and  fighting  at  the  wells 
under  Zimnitza.  The  dirty  little  town  filled  with  troops, 
some  Generals  who  waved  their  caps  at  us  from  a  balcony 
and  shouted  "  Hurrah  !"  to  which  we  replied. 

"  They  have  crossed  !  The}^  are  over  !"  buzzed  voices 
around  us. 

"  Two  hundred  killed,  five  hundred  wounded." 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF     327 


VIII 

It  was  already  dark  when,  having  come  down  from  the 
bank,  we  crossed  a  tributary  of  the  Danube  by  a  small 
bridge,  and  marched  over  a  low  sandy  island  still  wet 
from  the  water  which  had  but  just  receded  from  it.  I 
remember  the  sharp  clank  of  the  bayonets  of  the  soldiers 
as  the  men  collided  with  each  other  in  the  darkness,  the 
deep  rumble  of  the  artillery  which  had  overtaken  us,  the 
black  expanse  of  the  wide  river,  the  lights  on  the  other 
bank,  where  we  had  to  cross  to-morrow,  and  where,  I 
reflected,  to-morrow  would  be  a  fresh  battle.  .  .  .  Better 
not  to  think,  better  to  sleep,  I  decided,  and  laid  down  on 
the  watery  sand. 

The  sun  was  already  high  when  I  opened  my  eyes. 
Troops,  transport,  and  parks  were  swarming  over  the 
sandy  shore.  At  the  very  edge  of  the  water  they  had 
already  dug  out  gun-pits  and  trenches  for  the  riflemen. 
Across  the  Danube,  on  its  steep  cliff  could  be  discerned 
gardens  and  vineyards  in  which  our  troops  swarmed. 
Behind  these  the  land  rose  higher  and  higher,  abruptly 
restricting  the  horizon.  To  the  right,  three  versts  from 
us,  and  showing  white  on  the  hills,  were  the  houses  and 
minarets  of  Sistovo.  A  steamer  with  a  barge  in  tow  was 
transferring  battalion  after  battalion  to  the  other  side. 
On  our  side  a  little  torpedo-boat  was  noisily  blowing  off 
steam. 

"  A  successful  crossing,  Vladimir  Mikhailich,"  said 
Feodoroff  to  me  gaily. 

"  The  same  to  you.     Only  we  have  not  crossed  yet." 

"  We  shaU  directly.  Look  ;  the  steamer  will  soon  take 
us  over.  They  say  a  Turkish  ironclad  is  not  far  away. 
This  little  samovar  is  ready  for  it."  He  pointed  to  the 
torpedo-boat. 

*'  Great  God  !  but  what  a  number  have  been  killed,"  he 
continued,  changing  his  tone.  **  They  are  already  bring- 
ing and  bringing  them  over  from  that  side.  ..." 


328     REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

And  he  related  to  me  the  well-known  details  of  the 
Battle  of  Sistovo. 

**  Now  it  is  our  turn.  We  chaU  cross  over  to  that 
side.  .  .  .  The  Turks  will  attack  us.  .  .  .  Well,  anyhow, 
we  have  had  a  respite.  We  at  least  are  alive,  but  those 
there  ..."  He  nodded  his  head  to  a  group  of  men  and 
officers  standing  not  far  from  us,  who  were  crowded  round 
some  object  not  visible  to  us  at  which  they  were  all 
gazing. 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"They  have  brought  over  our  kiUed.  Go  and  look, 
Mikhailich.     How  terrible  !" 

I  went  up  to  the  group.  All  were  silent,  and  with  heads 
bared  were  gazing  at  the  bodies  lying  side  by  side  on  the 
sand.  Ivan  Platonich,  Stebelkoff,  and  Ventzel  were  also 
there.  Ivan  Platonich  was  frowning  angrily,  clearing  his 
throat  and  breathing  heavily.  Stebelkoff,  with  frank 
horror,  was  stretching  out  his  thin  neck.  Ventzel  was 
standing  wrapped  in  thought. 

There  were  two  of  them  lying  on  the  sand.  One  was 
a  fuU-grown,  handsome  Guardsman  of  the  Finland 
Regiment,  from  the  Composite  Guards  half-company — 
the  same  half-company  which  had  lost  half  its  strength 
during  the  attack.  He  had  been  wounded  in  the  stomach, 
and  must  have  suffered  long  agonies  before  he  died. 
Suffering  had  left  a  faint  imxpression  of  something  spiritual, 
had  left  a  shadow  of  refinement  and  something  painfully 
tender  on  his  face.  His  eyes  were  closed,  and  his  arms 
were  crossed  on  his  chest.  Had  he  himself  adopted  this 
position  before  death,  or  had  his  comrade  tended  him  ? 
His  appearance  did  not  excite  terror  or  revulsion,  but  only 
infinite  pity  for  the  life  so  full  of  energy  which  had 
perished. 

Ivan  Platonich  bent  over  the  body  and  taking  up  the 
man's  cap  lying  near  the  head,  read  on  the  peak,  "  Ivan 
Jurenko,  3rd  Company."  "  The  poor  chap  was  a  Little 
Russian,"  he  said  quietly.     It  recalled  to  me  my  birth- 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF     329 

place,  the  warm  wind  of  the  Steppe,  the  village  nestling 
in  the  ravine,  the  gullies,  the  overgrowTi  willows,  the 
little  white  mud  hut  with  its  red  shutters.  .  .  .  Who  is 
waiting  you  there  ? 

The  other  was  a  linesman  of  the  Volhynia  Regiment. 
Death  had  taken  him  suddenly.  He  was  running  madly 
to  the  attack,  breathless  from  shouting.  The  bullet  had 
struck  the  bridge  of  his  nose  and  had  penetrated  into  his 
head,  leaving  a  black  gaping  wound.  He  lay  with  wide- 
opened  eyes,  now  dimmed,  with  gaping  mouth,  and  face 
already  discoloured,  but  still  distorted  with  rage. 

"  They  have  paid  their  accounts,"  said  Ivan  Platonich ; 
"  they  are  in  peace  and  want  nothing  more." 

He  turned  away.  The  soldiers  hurriedly  parted  to  let 
him  through.  I  and  Stebelkoff  followed  him.  Ventzel 
caught  us  up. 

"  WeU,  Ivanoff,"  he  said,  "  did  you  see  ?" 

"  I  have  seen,  Peter  Nicolaievitch,"  I  replied. 

"  And  what  did  you  think  as  you  looked  at  them  ?"  he 
inquired  moodily. 

A  sudden  rage  rose  within  me  against  this  man  and  a 
mad  desire  to  say  something  hard  to  him. 

**  Much.  And  most  of  all  I  thought  that  they  were 
no  longer  '  food  for  powder,'  that  they  no  longer  needed 
welding  and  discipline,  and  that  nobody  would  now  bully 
them  for  the  sake  of  this  welding.  I  thought  that  they 
are  no  longer  soldiers,  no  longer  subordinates,"  I  said  in 
a  trembling  voice — '*  they  are  men  !" 

VentzeFs  eyes  flashed,  A  sound  came  from  his  throat 
and  broke  off.  No  doubt  he  wished  to  answer  me,  but 
once  more  restrained  himself.  He  walked  by  my  side 
with  lowered  head,  and  after  taking  a  few  paces,  not 
looking  at  me,  said  : 

"  Yes,  Ivanoff,  you  are  right.  .  .  .  They  are  men.  .  .  . 
Dead  men." 


330     REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 


IX 

They  took  us  across  the  Danube.  For  some  days  we 
halted  near  Sistovo  awaiting  the  Turks.  Then  the  troops 
started  off  into  the  heart  of  the  country.  We,  too, 
started  off.  For  a  long  time  they  sent  us  first  here,  then 
there.  We  were  near  Timova  and  not  far  from  Plevna. 
Three  weeks  passed  by,  and  still  we  had  not  been  in  action. 
At  length  we  were  told  off  to  form  part  of  a  special  division 
whose  duties  were  to  hold  the  advance  of  a  large  Turkish 
army.  Forty  thousand  were  stretched  over  seventy 
versts  of  country.  There  were  about  one  hundred  thou- 
sand Turks  in  front  of  us,  and  only  the  cautious  move- 
ments of  our  commander — ^who  would  not  risk  his  men  but 
contented  himself  by  opposing  the  advance  of  the  enemy — 
and  the  dilatoriness  of  the  Turkish  Pacha  enabled  us  to 
carry  out  our  task — not  to  allow  the  Turks  to  break 
through  and  cut  off  our  main  army  from  the  Danube. 

We  were  few  and  our  line  was  enormous  ;  consequently 
we  were  seldom  able  to  have  a  rest.  We  marched  round 
numbers  of  villages,  appearing  first  in  one  place,  then  in 
another,  in  order  to  meet  the  anticipated  attack.  We 
penetrated  into  such  remote  parts  of  Bulgaria  that  the 
transport  with  food  did  not  find  us,  and  we  were  obliged 
to  starve,  making  our  two  days'  ration  of  biscuit  last  over 
five  and  more  days.  The  hungry  men  used  to  thresh 
unripe  wheat  with  sticks  on  outstretched  sheets  of  our 
tents,  and  made  a  disgusting  soup  from  it  and  sour  wild 
apples,  without  salt  (because  we  could  not  get  any),  and 
got  sick  from  it.  Battalions  faded  away,  although  not 
in  action. 

In  the  middle  of  June  our  brigade,  with  several  squadrons 
of  cavalry  and  two  batteries  of  artillery,  arrived  at  a 
ruined  and  half-burned  Turkish  village  which  had  been 
abandoned  by  its  inhabitants.  Our  camp  was  situated 
on  a  high,  precipitous  mountain.  The  village  was  below, 
in  the  depth  of  the  valley  along  which  a  little  river  wound 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF     331 

its  course.  Steep,  high  cliffs  rose  on  the  other  side  of  the 
valley.  It  was,  as  we  imagined,  the  Turkish  side,  but  no 
Turks  were,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  near  us.  We  camped 
several  days  on  our  mountain,  almost  without  bread, 
only  obtaining  with  great  difficulty  any  water,  as  it  was 
necessary  to  descend  far  below  for  it  to  a  spring  which 
came  out  at  the  bottom  of  the  cliff.  We  were  absolutely 
detached  from  the  army,  and  did  not  know  in  the  least 
what  was  going  on  in  the  world.  Fifteen  versts  in  front 
of  us  were  Cossack  patrols.  Two  or  three  sotnias  of  them 
were  distributed  over  a  distance  of  twenty  versts.  There 
were  no  Turks  there  either. 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  we  could  not  find  the 
enemy,  our  little  column  took  every  precautionary 
measure.  Day  and  night  a  strong  chain  of  advanced 
posts  surrounded  the  camp.  Owing  to  the  nature  of  the 
ground  its  line  was  a  long  one,  and  every  day  several 
companies  were  told  off  for  this  inactive  but  very  tiring 
work.  Inaction,  almost  constant  starvation,  and  ignor- 
ance of  the  state  of  affairs  acted  prejudicially  on  the 
men. 

The  regimental  hospitals  became  overflowing.  Each 
day  men,  weakened  and  tortured  by  fever  and  dysentery, 
were  sent  to  the  divisional  hospital.  The  companies  were 
only  one-half  or  two-thirds  of  their  proper  strength.  All 
were  gloomy,  and  everyone  longed  to  come  to  grips. 
Anyhow,  it  would  have  been  a  change. 

At  length  it  came.  A  Cossack  orderly  came  galloping 
in  from  the  commander  of  a  Cossack  squadron  with  the 
information  that  the  Turks  had  begun  to  advance  and 
that  he  had  been  compelled  to  call  in  his  men  and  fall 
back  five  versts.  Afterwards  it  appeared  that  the  Turks 
went  back  without  thinking  of  continuing  the  attack,  and 
we  could  have  quietly  remained  on  the  spot,  the  more  so 
as  nobody  had  ordered  us  to  advance.  But  the  General 
commanding  us  then,  who  had  but  recently  arrived  from 
St.  Petersburg,  felt,  as  did  all  of  us  in  the  column,  that 


332    REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

it  was  insufferable  to  the  men  to  sit  with  folded  arms  or 
stand  for  whole  days  on  guard  against  an  invisible  and, 
as  all  were  convinced,  non-existent  enemy,  to  eat  horrible 
food,  and  aw^ait  their  turn  to  fall  sick.  All  were  eager 
for  the  fray ;  and  the  General  ordered  an  attack. 

We  left  half  the  column  in  camp.  The  situation  was  so 
little  known  that  there  was  a  possibility  of  being  attacked 
from  both  sides.  Fourteen  companies,  the  Hussars,  and 
four  guns  moved  out  after  midday.  Never  had  we 
marched  so  fast  and  light-heartedly,  with  the  exception 
of  the  day  on  which  we  marched  past  the  Emperor. 

We  marched  along  the  valley,  passing,  one  after  another, 
deserted  Turkish  and  Bulgarian  villages.  In  the  narrow 
thoroughfares  bordered  by  hedges  higher  than  a  man 
nothing  was  to  be  met — neither  human  beings,  cattle,  nor 
dogs.  Only  clucking  hens  flew  away  on  our  approach,  on 
to  the  hedges  and  roofs,  and  geese,  with  a  cry,  raised 
themselves  ponderously  in  the  air  and  endeavoured  to 
fly  away.  In  the  gardens  could  be  seen  plum-trees  of 
every  description,  the  branches  of  which  were  literally 
obscured  by  ripe  fruit.  In  the  last  village,  five  versts 
from  the  spot  we  imagined  the  Turks  to  be  in,  we  halted 
for  half  an  hour.  During  this  spell  the  half-starved  men 
shook  down  quantities  of  plums,  ate  them,  and  crammed 
their  ration  bags  with  them.  A  few  would  catch  and 
kill  the  hens  and  geese,  pluck  them,  and  bring  them 
along  in  their  knapsacks.  I  remembered  how  the  same 
soldiers  before  the  crossing  at  Sistovo,  in  anticipation  of 
a  fight,  had  throv/n  everything  out  of  their  knapsacks, 
and  I  mentioned  it  to  Jitkoff,  who  was  at  the  moment 
busily  engaged  in  plucking  an  enormous  goose. 

**  WeU,  Mikhailich,  although  we  have  not  been  in  action 
we  have  become  accustomed  to  wait.  It  seems  as  if  you  will 
only  march  and  not  take  any  part  in  the  fighting.  And 
even  if  you  do  you  need  not  necessarily  be  killed." 

**  Are  you  frightened  ?"  I  asked  him  involuntarily. 

*'  But    perhaps   nothing   will    happen,"    he   answered 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF     333 

slowly,  frowning,  and  assiduously  plucking  out  the  last 
remnants  of  white  down. 

"  But  if  it  does  V 

"  li  it  does,  frightened  or  not  frightened,  its  all  the 
same,  one  has  to  go.  They  don't  ask  us.  Go,  and  God 
help  you.  Lend  me  your  knife.  It  is  such  a  good  one." 
I  gave  him  my  big  hunting-knife.  He  cut  the  goose  in 
two,  and  held  out  one  half  to  me. 

"  Take  it  in  case.  And  about  being  frightened  or  not 
frightened,  don't  think  of  it,  sir.  It  is  better  not  to  think 
of  it.  All  rests  with  God.  You  cannot  get  away  from 
what  He  designs." 

"  If  a  bullet  or  shell  comes  at  you,  where  can  you  go  ?" 
added  Feodoroff,  who  was  lying  near  us.  "  I  think  this, 
Vladimir  Mikhailich,  that  it  is  even  more  dangerous  to  run 
away,  because  a  bullet  must  travel  like  that " — he  showed 
with  his  finger — "  and  the  heaviest  fire  comes  from  the 
rear." 

*'  Yes,"  said  I,  "  especially  with  the  Turks.  They  say 
they  fire  high." 

"  Well,  clever  one,"  said  Jitkoff  to  Feodoroff,  "go  on 
talking.  There  they  will  show  you  a  trajectory.  Yes,  cer- 
tainly," he  added,  thinking,  "it  is  better  to  be  in  front." 

"  It  depends  on  our  officers,"  said  Feodoroff,  "  and  our 
officer  will  go  ahead  and  not  be  afraid." 

"  Yes,  he  will  go  ahead  all  right.  He  isn't  afraid. 
And  Niemtseff  also." 

"  '  Uncle  '  Jitkoff,"  inquired  Feodoroff,  "  what  do  you 
say  ?     Will  he  live  through  the  day  or  not  ?" 

Jitkoff  lowered  his  eyes. 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Well  I  never  !  Have  you  seen  him  ?  Every  nerve  is 
on  the  go." 

Jitkoff  became  still  more  surly. 

"  You  are  talking  rot,"  he  growled. 

"  Well.  What  did  they  say  before  we  crossed  the 
Danube  ?"  said  Feodoroff. 


334     REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

"  Before  we  crossed  the  Danube  !  .  .  .  The  men  were 
angry  then,  and  didn't  know  what  they  were  saying.  It's 
a  fact  that  they  couldn't  stand  him." 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  That  they  are  blackguards  ?" 
said  Jitkoff,  turning  and  looking  Feodoroff  straight  in  the 
face.  **  Have  they  no  thought  of  God  in  them  ?  They 
do  not  know  where  they  are  going  !  Perhaps  some  will 
to-day  have  to  answer  to  the  Lord  God,  and  can  they 
think  of  such  a  thing  at  such  a  moment  ?  Before  the 
crossing  of  the  Danube  !  Yes,  I  too  then  said  the  same 
thing  to  the  gentleman"  (he  nodded  his  head  at  me). 
**  I  said  exactly  the  same  thing  because  ...  it  was  sickening 
to  look  at.  It's  not  worth  while  remembering  what  hap- 
pened before  we  crossed  the  Danube." 

He  felt  in  his  boot-top  for  his  tobacco-pouch,  and,  con- 
tinuing to  mutter,  filled  his  pipe  and  commenced  to 
smoke.  Then,  replacing  the  pouch,  he  settled  himself 
more  comfortably,  seized  his  knees  with  his  hands,  and 
became  buried  in  some  moody  reflections. 

Half  an  hour  later  we  left  the  village  and  began  to 
clamber  up  from  the  valley  into  the  mountains.  The 
Turks  were  behind  the  ridges,  over  which  we  were  to  cross. 
When  we  reached  the  summit  there  opened  out  before 
us  a  wide,  hilly  and  gradually  descending  expanse,  covered 
here  with  fields  of  wheat  and  maize,  there  with  overgrown 
bushes  and  medlar-trees.  In  two  places  glistened  the 
minarets  of  villages  hidden  behind  the  green  hills.  We 
were  to  take  the  one  on  the  right.  Behind  it,  on  the 
edge  of  the  horizon,  could  be  seen  a  whitish  streak.  It 
was  the  main  road  which  had  been  previously  held  by  our 
Cossacks.  Soon  all  this  became  lost  to  sight.  We  en- 
tered into  a  dense  undergrowth  intersected  at  intervals  by 
small  fields. 

I  don't  remember  much  about  the  commencement  of 
the  battle.  When  we  came  out  into  the  open  on  the 
summit  of  a  hill  the  Turks  could  plainly  be  seen.  As  our 
companies  emerged  from  amongst  the  bushes  they  formed 


I 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF     335 

up  and  opened  out.  A  single  cannon-shot  thundered 
out.  They  had  fired  a  shell.  The  men  started,  and  all 
eyes  were  attracted  by  a  white  puff  of  smoke  which  was 
already  dispersing  and  slowly  rolling  down  the  hill.  At 
the  same  instant  the  screeching  sound  of  a  shell  as  it  flew, 
apparently  directly,  over  our  heads  made  everyone  duck. 
The  shell,  passing  over  us,  struck  the  ground  near  the 
companies  in  rear  of  us.  I  remember  the  dull  thud  of  its 
burst  was  followed  by  a  pitiful  cry  from  someone.  A 
splinter  had  torn  off  the  company  sergeant-major's  foot. 
I  heard  of  this  later.  At  the  time  I  could  not  understand 
the  cry ;  my  ears  heard  it — that  was  all.  Then  everything 
merged  into  that  confused  indescribable  feeling  which 
takes  possession  of  anyone  coming  under  fire  for  the  first 
time.  They  say  that  there  is  no  one  who  is  not  afraid  in 
action.  Any  modest  and  truthful  man,  to  the  question, 
'*  Were  you  frightened  ?"  replies,  "  Yes."  But  it  is  not 
the  physical  fear  which  takes  hold  of  a  man  at  night,  in 
some  obscure  alley,  when  encountering  a  footpad.  It  is 
the  full,  clear  recognition  of  the  inevitability  and  prox- 
imity of  death.  And,  fantastic  and  strange  as  these 
words  may  appear,  this  recognition  does  not  make  men 
stop,  does  not  force  them  to  think  of  flight,  but  compels 
them  to  go  ahead.  Bloodthirsty  instincts  are  not 
awakened ;  there  is  no  desire  to  go  ahead  in  order  to  kill 
somebody.  But  there  is  an  irresistible  force  which  drives 
one  forward  at  all  costs.  Thoughts  as  to  what  must  be 
done  during  action  cannot  be  expressed  in  words.  It  is 
necessary  to  kill,  or  rather — one's  duty  to  die. 

Whilst  we  were  crossing  the  valley  the  Turks  succeeded 
in  firing  several  shots.  As  we  slowly  climbed  up  to  the 
village  we  were  separated  from  the  Turks  only  by  the 
last  piece  of  thick  undergrowth.  As  we  entered  the 
bushes  everything  became  quiet. 

It  was  difficult  going.  The  dense,  often  prickly,  bushes 
grew  thickly,  and  it  was  necessary  either  to  go  round 
them  or  to  push  one's  way  through  them.     The  sharp- 


336     REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

shooters  in  front  of  us  were  already  extended,  and  from 
time  to  time  called  gently  to  each  other  so  as  not  to  lose 
touch.  Up  to  the  present  the  whole  company  was 
together.     A  profound  silence  reigned  in  the  wood. 

Then  there  came  the  first  rifle-shot,  not  very  loud  and 
resembling  the  thud  of  a  woodman's  axe.  The  Turks 
were  beginning  to  fire  at  random.  Bullets  whistled  high 
above  in  the  air  in  varying  tones  ;  they  flew  noisily  through 
the  bushes,  cutting  off  branches,  but  were  not  touching 
us.  This  noise  like  wood-chopping  became  more  and 
more  frequent,  and  finally  melted  into  an  uniform  tapping. 
The  squealing  and  snarling  of  single  bullets  could  no 
longer  be  heard.  The  very  air  itself  seemed  to  be  yelping. 
We  hurriedly  advanced.  I  and  all  around  me  were  whole. 
This  much  astonished  me. 

Suddenly  we  emerged  from  the  bushes.  A  deep  gully 
along  which  ran  a  little  stream  intersected  the  road.  The 
men  halted  a  few  minutes  and  drank. 

From  here  the  companies  extended  on  either  side  so  as 
to  outflank  the  Turks.  Our  company  was  left  in  reserve 
in  the  gully.  The  skirmishers  were  to  go  direct 
through  the  bushes  and  rush  the  village.  The  Turkish 
fire  was  as  frequent  as  formerly,  unceasing,  but  much 
louder. 

Having  climbed  up  to  the  other  side  of  the  gully, 
Ventzel  formed  up  his  company.  He  said  something  to 
the  men  which  I  did  not  hear. 

"  We  will  try,  we  will  try  !"  resounded  the  voices  of 
the  men. 

I  looked  at  him  from  below.  He  was  pale,  and  it 
seemed  to  me,  sorrowful,  but  calm.  Seeing  Ivan  Plato- 
nich  and  Stebelkoff ,  he  waved  to  them  with  his  handker- 
chief, and  then  looked  towards  us  as  if  in  search  of  some- 
thing. I  guessed  that  he  wished  to  bid  me  fareweU,  and 
I  stood  up  so  that  he  should  notice  me.  Ventzel  smiled, 
nodded  his  head  several  times  at  me,  and  ordered  his  men 
to  go  up  into  the  fire.     The  m.en  extended  right  and  left, 


REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF     337 

forming  a  long  line,  and  were  at  once  lost  to  sight  in  the 
bushes,  with  the  exception  of  one  man,  who  suddenly 
bounded  forward,  threw  up  his  hands,  and  feU  heavily 
to  the  ground.  Two  of  ours  jumped  out  of  the  gully  and 
brought  in  his  body. 

There  was  a  torturing  half-hour  of  suspense. 

The  fight  developed.  Rifle-fire  became  more  frequent 
and  became  one  menacing  howl.  Guns  boomed  on  our 
right  flank.  Blood-bespattered  men,  some  walking,  some 
crawling,  commenced  to  appear  from  out  of  the  bushes. 
At  first  only  a  few,  but  their  numbers  increased  every 
moment.  Our  company  assisted  them  down  into  the 
gully,  gave  them  water,  and  dressed  their  woimds  waiting 
the  arrival  of  the  stretcher-bearers.  A  rifleman  with  a 
shattered  wrist,  crying  out  terribly  and  rolling  his  eyes, 
his  face  pallid  from  loss  of  blood  and  pain,  arrived  by 
himself  and  sat  down  by  the  stream.  They  tied  up  his 
arm  and  placed  him  on  his  great  coat.  The  bleeding 
stopped.  He  was  in  a  highly  feverish  state.  His  lips 
trembled,  and  he  was  sobbing  nervously  and  convul- 
sively. 

"  Mates,  mates  !  .  .  .  dear  comrades  !...'* 

"  Are  many  kiUed  ?" 

"  Yes,  they  are  falling." 

"  Is  the  company  commander  all  right  ?'* 

*'  Yes,  as  yet.  But  for  him  we  would  have  been  beaten 
back.  We  wiU  take  it.  With  him  they  wiU  take  it," 
said  the  wounded  man  in  a  weak  voice.  "  Three  times 
he  led,  and  they  beat  us  back.  He  led  for  the  fourth 
time.  They  (the  Turks)  are  sitting  in  a  gully.  They  have 
heaps  of  ammunition,  and  go  on  firing  and  firing.  .  .  . 
But  no  !"  the  wounded  man  screamed  suddenly,  rising 
and  waving  his  injured  hand.  "  You  are  joking,  it 
cannot  be.  .  .  .     They  must  ..." 

Then,  rolling  his  delirious  eyes  and  shouting  out  the 
most  awful  curses,  he  fell  forward  senseless. 

Lukin  appeared  on  the  bank  of  the  gully. 

22 


33S     REMINISCENCES  OF  PRIVATE  IVANOFF 

"  Ivan  Platonich  !"  he  shouted  out  in  an  unnatural 
voice,  *'  Bring  them  on  !" 

***** 

Smoke,  reports,  groans,  and  a  mad  "  hurrah."  A 
smell  of  blood  and  powder.  .  .  .  Strange  men  with  pale 
faces  enveloped  in  smoke.  ...  A  savage,  monstrous, 
inhuman  struggle.  Thank  God  that  such  moments  are 
remembered  only  as  in  a  dream,  mistily. 

***** 

When  we  reached  them  Ventzel  had  led  the  remnant 
of  his  company  for  the  fifth  time  at  the  Turks,  who  were 
raining  lead  on  him.  This  time  the  riflemen  gained  the 
village.  The  few  Turks  still  defending  it  succeeded  in 
getting  away.  (The  second  rifle  company  lost  in  the 
two  hours'  fighting  fifty- two  men  out  of  a  little  over  one 
hundred.)  Our  company,  having  taken  but  little  part 
in  the  action,  lost  only  a  few. 

We  did  not  remain  on  the  position  we  had  won,  although 
the  Turks  had  been  defeated  all  along  the  line.  When 
our  General  saw  battalion  after  battalion  take  the  road 
out  of  the  village,  when  he  saw  masses  of  cavalry  move 
off  and  long  lines  of  guns,  he  was  horrified.  It  was  evident 
the  Turks  did  not  know  our  strength,  concealed  by  the 
bushes.  Had  they  known  that  only  fourteen  companies  in 
all  had  driven  them  out  of  the  deep  roads,  gullies,  and  hedges 
surrounding  the  village,  they  would  have  returned  and  an- 
nihilated us.    They  were  three  times  as  many  as  ourselves.  ^ 

By  the  evening  we  were  back  again  at  our  old  camp. 
Ivan  Platonich  called  me  in  to  have  some  tea. 

**  Have  you  seen  Ventzel  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Go  to  him.  He  is  in  his  tent.  Tell  him  we  want  him^ 
He  is  killing  himself.  '  Fifty- two  !  fifty-two  !'  is  aU  yoi 
can  hear.     Go  to  him." 

A  thin  piece  of  candle  was  feebly  illuminating  Ventzel' J 
tent.     He  was  crouching  in  one  of  the  comers  with  hisj 
bowed  head  resting  on  some  boxes,  and  sobbing  bitterly. 


XVII 
THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR 

I 

We  halted  two  weeks  at  Kovachitsa.  Camp-life  is 
wearisome  and  monotonous  when  there  is  nothing  to  do, 
especially  in  such  an  out-of-the-way  spot ;  at  the  same 
time  it  would  not  be  just  to  call  Kovachitsa  by  such  a 
name.  The  staff  of  our  corps  had  its  quarters  in  the 
place  and  there  was  a  postal  section — in  a  word,  the 
means  of  finding  out  what  was  going  on  in  the  world 
surrounding  us,  but  chiefly  at  the  two  theatres  of  war 
and  in  our  dear,  far-away  Homeland.  However,  it  must 
be  said  in  all  justice  that  we  were  not  spoiled  by  the 
freshness  and  wealth  of  the  news,  and  it  often  appeared 
to  us  to  be  mutilated  and  exaggerated.  Sombre  rumours 
of  the  early  failures  at  Plevna  were  so  exaggerated  that 
only  papers  two  or  three  weeks  old  dispersed  the  gloom 
reigning  amongst  the  officers.  It  seemed  that  the  direct 
road  from  Plevna  was  not  as  close  to  us  as  the  route  via 
Petersburg  and  Moscow  ;  however,  "  the  shortest  cut  is 
the  longest  way  round,"  as  the  saying  goes. 

Our  brigade  began  to  get  bored.  It  is  true  that  once 
a  portion  of  the  Niejinsky  Regiment  went  out  recon- 
noitring, or,  more  correctly  speaking,  to  punish  the  armed 
inhabitants  of  Lom,  who  had  risen.  Having  taught  them  a 
lesson,  the  regiment  returned  with  the  loss  of  one  killed. 
Another  soldier  escaped  by  a  miracle,  as  will  be  seen  from 
the  following  narrative  of  his  : 

339 


340  THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR 

"  We  had  begun  to  turn  back,  and  the  Bashi-Bazouks 
commenced  to  fire  from  afar.  I  lagged  behind  a  little,  and 
turned  to  fire.  I  had  only  just  started  to  overtake  them 
when  it  hit  me  in  the  back.  But  it  was  a  bad  shot — it 
buried  itself  in  my  great-coat.  It  went  through  seven 
folds  and  stuck  in  the  eighth." 

*'  It  '*  was,  of  course,  a  bullet.  When  the  soldier  opened 
out  his  great-coat  there  were  actually  seven  holes  in  it. 

"  And  I  had  only  time  to  cross  myself  when — look  ! — 
my  ration-bag  had  two  holes  in  the  very  bottom  of  it,  and 
biscuit  crumbs  began  to  dribble  out." 

It  had  a  bite  of  them  and  went. 

*'  Our  Russian  biscuits  are  not  tasty,"  said  somebody 
jokingly. 

Meanwhile,  whilst  we  were  halted  in  Kovachitsa,  and,  to 
use  the  popular  expression,  "  were  going  sour,"  there  were 
constant  skirmishes  ahead  of  us  at  the  front,  near  Papkio. 

On  the  gth  of  August  our  regimental  doctor  ordered  a 
"  medical  inspection  "  to  assemble  in  the  lines  of  the  third 
battalion  (which  was  camped  apart  from  us) .  Our  company 
was  the  first  of  all  to  muster,  and  after  they  had  formed 
us  up,  we  were  marched  to  the  appointed  parade-ground. 
It  was  not  a  large  piece  of  ground,  but  was  free  of  tents 
and  guns.  Here  we  halted.  There  was  no  doctor,  and 
we  were  obliged  to  wait  for  him.  Having  nothing  to  do 
I  began  to  gaze  at  the  camp.  A  camp  in  time  of  war 
presents  a  strange  appearance.  The  little  tents  of  the 
soldiers  shone  brightly  white  bathed  in  sunshine.  The 
piles  of  arms  and  different  coloured  figures  of  soldiers 
lent  a  variety  to  this  white  background.  Lilac-coloured 
shirts  predominated ;  then  came  red,  yellow,  crimson,  and 
green.  The  black  tunics  were  only  worn  if  on  some  duty. 
Everyone  preferred  the  most  immoderate  deshabille. 
Some  were  bare-footed,  others  with  bared  chest  and 
back.  Boots  were  not  worn  because  of  the  heat,  besides 
which  a  thousand  versts'  march  had  taught  the  men  the 
necessity  of  taking  care  of  them. 


THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR  341 

We  waited  quite  a  time.  Someone  went  to  inform  the 
doctor  that  the  men  were  on  parade.  But  it  became 
evident  to  us  that  we  were  not  to  undergo  a  "  medical 
inspection."  The  regimental  Adjutant  rushed  into  the 
tent  of  the  commandant  of  the  third  battalion,  and 
almost  instantaneously  stout  little  Major  A.  ran  out 
of  his  tent  nearly  naked,  having  divested  himself  of 
most  of  his  clothing  owing  to  the  heat,  and  gave  the 
order  : 

*'  Third  battalion,  strike  tents !  Leave  knapsacks 
behind."  He  then  disappeared  into  his  tent,  which  was 
immediately  struck,  revealing  the  Major  sitting  on  a 
folding-chair  and  being  assisted  into  various  necessary 
articles  of  clothing  by  his  servant.  At  the  same  time  there 
was  an  immediate  change  in  the  appearance  of  the  third 
battalion.  Men  came  crawling  out  of  every  tent  like 
ants,  hurriedly  putting  on  their  uniforms.  Tents  dis- 
appeared and  were  folded  up,  and  great-coats  were  rolled. 
Within  five  minutes  of  the  Major's  command,  the 
variegated,  quiet  bivouac  had  become  transformed  into 
regular  sombre-coloured  ranks  of  men.  Here  and  there 
the  sunlight  played  on  the  bayonets  and  rifle-barrels. 
Officers  came  running  towards  the  battalion  fastening 
on  their  sword-belts  as  they  ran.  The  Major  himself 
appeared  before  the  battalion,  mounted  his  horse  with 
outside  assistance,  and  gave  a  command,  which  was  taken 
up  by  the  company  commanders.  The  mass  of  humanity 
stirred,  and  began,  snakelike  to  draw  out  into  column, 
of  route.  Where  was  it  going  ?  The  Major,  having  led 
the  way  on  to  the  road,  turned  to  the  left  and  took  the 
column  towards  Papkio.  The  battalion  had  not  had 
time  to  get  on  to  the  road  before  our  own  orderly  ap- 
peared. 

"  Kuzma  Zakharich,  call  up  the  company ;  we  are  ad- 
vancing." 

"  Without  knapsacks  ?"  asked  a  number  of  voices  at 
once. 


342  THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR 

The  question  was  one  of  the  premier  importance. 
Nearly  one-third  of  all  a  soldier's  discomforts  during  a 
campaign  arise  from  the  **  calf,"  as  the  soldiers  nick- 
named their  clumsy  knapsack.  Others  called  it  a  "  chest 
of  drawers."  This  "  chest  of  drawers "  hurts  the 
shoulders,  presses  on  the  chest,  tires  out  the  feet,  and 
lessens  the  stability  of  the  body.  Even  in  cool,  fresh 
weather  it  makes  the  back  under  it  wet  with  perspiration 
after  five  minutes'  marching.  It  is  not,  therefore,  aston- 
ishing that  the  order  to  leave  knapsacks  behind  was  met 
with  general  satisfaction. 

The  company  ran  to  its  bivouac.  Everyone  had  already 
assembled.  Knapsacks  were  thrown  into  a  heap  and 
tents  struck.  We  hurriedly  dressed.  However  much  the 
Russian  may  like  to  make  a  noise  on  every  convenient 
occasion  and  when  he  is  in  a  crowd,  there  was  absolute 
silence.  I  have  always  been  struck  with  this  quietness 
during  the  mustering  of  the  men  whenever  the  **  alarm  " 
sounded. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  time  we  moved  off.  The 
total  distance  from  Kovachitsa  to  Papkio  is  from  nine 
to  ten  versts,  but  although  we  marched  "  light,"  without^ 
knapsacks  and  only  with  our  great-coats  slung  bandolier- 
fashion  across  our  shoulders  with  our  tent-sheets  wrapped 
up  in  them,  these  ten  versts  absolutely  knocked  us  out. 
The  heat  was  deadly,  over  35°  Reamur  in  the  shade,  and 
not  the  slightest  vestige  of  a  breeze.  Everything  seemed 
to  have  died.  The  maize  did  not  move  its  dark-green 
leaves.  The  boughs  and  leaves  of  the  pear-trees  which 
we  passed  were  motionless.  Not  a  solitary  bird  did  we 
see  during  the  whole  of  this  march.  The  men  were  done 
even  after  the  first  four  versts.  When  half  way  a  halt 
was  called  at  a  well,  they  were  scarcely  able  to  pile  arms, 
and  literally  fell  on  to  the  ground. 

"  Have  you  got  out  of  the  way  of  marching,  Gabriel 
Vassilivich  ?"  I  said  to  my  neighbour,  as  he  lay  with  half- 
closed  eyes  breathing  heavily. 


THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR  343 

*'  Yes,  if  one  doesn't  walk  for  a  fortnight  it  spoils  one/' 
he  answered  dully.     "  Let  us  go  for  a  drink." 

We  rose,  and  went  to  push  our  w^ay  to  the  well,  or,  more 
correctly  speaking,  to  the  spring.  From  an  iron  pipe 
placed  in  the  wall  of  stone  at  about  the  height  of  a  man 
a  clear  transparent  stream  ran  into  a  stone  trough. 
The  men  pressed  each  other  as  they  got  the  water,  and 
soaked  each  other  as  they  passed  their  canteens  full  of 
water  over  the  heads  of  their  neighbours.  We  had  a  good 
drink  and  filled  our  water-bottles. 

"  Well,  that's  a  bit  better.  I  can  manage  another 
march  now,"  said  Gabriel  Vassihvich,  wiping  his  fair 
moustaches  and  beard  with  his  sleeve. 

He  was  an  extraordinarily  good-looking  fellow,  sturdy, 
active,  with  big  blue  eyes.  He  now  lies  on  the  Aislar  heights 
and  nothing  is  left  of  his  blue  eyes  and  handsome  face. 

Having  given  us  a  half-hour's  spell.  Major  F.  led  us 
further.  The  nearer  we  approached  Papkio  the  more  and 
more  difficult  it  became.  The  sun  baked  us  with  such  fury 
that  it  seemed  as  if  it  was  hurrying  to  complete  the  job 
before  we  reached  our  destination  and  could  take  refuge 
from  its  heat  in  our  tents.  Some  of  us  succumbed. 
Scarcely  moving  along,  with  my  head  lowered,  I  almost 
tripped  over  an  officer  who  had  fallen.  He  was  lying, 
scarlet  in  the  face  and  was  breathing  convulsively  and 
heavily.     They  placed  him  in  an  ambulance-waggon. 

The  one  and  a  half  verst  climb  out  of  the  valley  along 
which  we  had  marched  up  its  right  slope  seemed  to  us  the 
worst  part  of  the  whole  road.  The  smells  which  always 
notified  us  of  any  approaching  camp  added  still  further 
to  the  suffocating  heat.  How  I  "  stuck  "  it  I  absolutely 
don't  remember,  but  nevertheless  I  did.  Others  were  less 
fortunate.  Scarcely  able  to  drag  one  foot  after  another 
we  got  into  the  order  in  which  we  were  to  camp,  and, 
barely  able  to  stand  up,  awaited  the  longed-for  command 
from  Major  F. — "  Pile  arms  !"  That  is,  pile  arms  and  do 
what  you  like  afterwards. 


344  THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR 

II 

The  men  were  so  worn  out  that  even  the  insufferable 
heat  could  not  make  them  go  for  water.  Only  after  half 
an  hour's  rest  did  the  orderlies  assemble  with  their  can- 
teens and  set  off  for  the  village.  On  that  slope  of  the 
valley,  on  the  summit  of  which  we  were  encamped,  was  the 
Mussulman  quarter  of  Papkio — literally  deserted  since 
the  plague.  On  the  opposite  side  crowded  the  Bulgarian 
kishtas,  precisely  similar  to  the  Turkish  houses,  with 
exactly  the  same  squat  tiled  roofs.  There  could  be 
heard  the  barking  of  dogs.  People  could  be  seen,  also 
sheep  and  buffaloes,  or  "  bufflos,"  as  our  men  called  them. 
To  the  right  was  the  valley  along  which  we  had  just  come, 
with  a  stream  in  the  middle  and  endless  fields  of  maize, 
barley,  and  wheat  along  its  slopes.  To  the  left,  at  right 
angles  to  our  valley,  was  the  valley  of  Lom,  fading  away 
on  either  side  into  a  misty  bluish  distance,  out  of  which 
the  mountains  on  the  right  bank  of  the  river  could  be  seen 
with  decreasing  clearness. 

Opposite  us  these  heights  rose  to  a  great  elevation.  At  one 
point  on  them  there  appeared  at  intervals  a  puff  of  white 
smoke  which,  slowly  and  slowly  drifting,  melted  and  dis- 
appeared, fused  in  the  air.  Half  a  minute  later  there 
Vv'ould  come  a  dull  roar  resembling  the  growl  of  distant 
thunder.  This  was  the  Morshansk  Regiment  carrying  out 
a  reconnaissance. 

We  found  the  springs,  got  some  water,  and  returned 
in  no  particular  order  to  our  bivouac.  The  soldiers, 
having  rested  a  little,  were  already  more  lively.  The 
distant  firing  undoubtedly  helped  in  this  matter. 

"  Listen  !     What  firing  !" 

"  What  do  you  think,  chums  ?  Are  they  ours  or  the 
Turks  ?"  asked  someone. 

Somebody  else  replied  that  the  Morshansk  Regiment  had 
taken  no  guns  with  them,  and  certainly,  judging  from  the 
situation  and  direction  of  the  smoke,  they  could  not  be 
shots  from  our  guns. 


THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR  345 

More  to  the  right  of  the  village,  much  nearer  than  the 
shell-fire,  not  on  the  heights,  but  below  it  in  the  Valley  of 
Lorn,  began  the  sound  of  rifle-fire,  at  first  desultory,  as 
if  several  axes  were  hewing  down  trees,  then  more  and 
more  often.  Sometimes  the  sound  united  in  a  prolonged 
crackle. 

I  went  up  to  the  officers  of  our  company.  Our  com- 
pany commander  was  talking  to  another  officer — S. — 
telling  him  that  he  had  just  been  informed  that  similar 
'*  brushes  "  took  place  here  almost  every  day. 

"  Well,  it  seems  we  have  got  into  action  at  last,"  said  S. 

"  But  what  sort  of  action  is  this  ?  .  .  .  Surely  you 
cannot  call  this  an  action  ?  Some  of  the  local  inhabitants 
have  squatted  down  with  their  blunderbusses  in  the  woods 
and  are  sniping  us.  All  the  same,  stray  bullets  may  come 
this  way,  and  I  should  not  like  to  be  killed  in  such  a  way." 

"  Why,  Ivan  Nicolaievitch  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Because  what  sort  of  action  is  this  ?" 

Ivan  Nicolaievitch  was  an  expert  on  military  matters 
and  a  tremendous  admirer  of  strategy  and  tactics.  He 
frequently  expressed  the  opinion  that  if  he  was  to  be 
killed  it  ought  to  be  done  in  the  proper  manner  in  a 
proper  battle,  or,  better  still,  in  a  general  action.  The 
present  skirmishing  was  evidently  not  to  his  liking.  He 
tugged  uneasily  at  a  few  straggling  hairs  on  his  chin,  then 
suddenly  with  a  good-humoured  and  serious  smile  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Better  to  come  along  and  have  some  tea  ;  the  samovar 
is  ready." 

We  crawled  into  the  tent,  and  settled  down  to  drink 
tea.  Little  by  little  the  firing  died  down,  and  we  spent 
the  remainder  of  the  day  and  night  in  absolute  quietness. 

By  the  way,  I  dreamt  all  night  long  of  white  puffs  of 
smoke  and  of  the  rattle  of  musketry. 

When  I  awoke  the  sun  was  already  high  up.  The  heat 
was  like  yesterday's.  A  battalion  of  the  Nevsky  Regi- 
ment which  had    passed  us  going  in  the  direction  of 


346  THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR 

yesterday's  cannonading  marched  along,  however,  quite 
spiritedly.  The  men  were  infected  with  the  closeness  of 
battle. 

However,  they  soon  returned,  and,  skirting  the  village, 
probably  made  for  the  scene  of  the  previous  day's  rifie- 
iiring.  To-day  it  was  less  distinct,  the  shots  were  further 
from  us.  The  guns,  too,  roared  at  first  from  our  side, 
but  soon  white  puffs  of  smoke  showed  themselves  on  the 
heights  of  the  opposite  bank.  The  Turks  had  brought  up 
some  artillery. 

I  proposed  to  S.  going  into  the  village  to  climb  on  to 
some  roof  and  follow  the  fight.  One  could  see  better 
from  this  position.  Although  the  minaret  was  untouched, 
and  of  course  stood  high  above  any  roof,  the  mosque 
itself  stood  low  down,  almost  in  the  valley,  so  we  clam- 
bered on  to  the  gallery  of  the  first  Cherkess  house  we  came 
to  which  happened  to  face  towards  the  scene  of  the 
action.  But  although  it  lay  before  us,  we  could  see  no 
troops  or  even  any  rifles-moke.  There  was  simply  nothing 
to  be  seen.  We  slid  down  from  the  gallery  into  a  little 
garden  of  white  acacias  and  apricot  trees.  Everything 
was  in  perfect  order,  as  if  it  was  only  yesterday  the 
owners  had  watered  the  flower-beds.  Pumpkins  were 
winding  their  clinging  stalks  along  the  hedge,  whilst  a 
few  stalks  of  maize  and  high  "  rat's-tails  "  with  red  ears 
gave  colour  to  the  garden.  We  entered  the  house.  The 
walls  were  smoothly  and  clearly  plastered  with  a  grey 
clay.  All  was  in  perfect  repair.  Only  the  hearth,  made 
of  pieces  of  tile,  was  broken.  On  the  floor  were  scat- 
tered a  few  leaves  of  some  Mussulman  book  with  decorated 
headings  in  gold  and  paint. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  see,  and  climbing  over  the 
labyrinth  of  hedges  we  got  out  into  the  street.  Here  we 
met  S.'s  servant,  who  came  running  towards  us,  red  as  a 
lobster. 

"  Please,  sir,  please !  They  have  already  stood  to 
arms  !" 


THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR  347 

We  ran  to  the  battalion,  and  in  two  minutes'  time  I,  too, 
was  marching  along  with  my  rifle  shouldered. 

We  went  towards  the  scene  of  yesterday's  rifle  skirmish. 
The  soldiers  began  to  cross  themselves.  A  long  string 
of  ambulance  waggons  halted  on  the  road  to  let  us  pass 
and  followed  on  behind  us. 

Ill 

We  skirted  round  the  village,  descended,  and  passed 
over  a  small  bridge  throv/n  across  the  stream.  The  road 
led  lightly  to  the  mountain  through  a  small  thicket. 
Little  medlar-trees,  all  red  from  the  quantity  of  fruit, 
mingled  with  blackthorn.  It  was  a  narrow  road,  and 
not  more  than  four  men  could  march  abreast.  To  the 
right  of  it  gun  and  rifle  pits  had  been  dug  out  amongst 
the  bushes,  preparations  in  case  of  an  attack  by  the  Turks 
on  Papkio. 

We  halted  and  allowed  some  regiment  to  pass  us.  It 
was  the  Nevsky  Regiment,  which  had  been  under  fire  all 
day  and  was  now  returning  to  camp,  as  it  had  expended 
all  its  ammunition.  So  far  as  I  can  remember,  its 
casualties  that  day  had  not  been  great.  They  marched  as 
if  worn  out  and  tired,  but  with  an  air  of  gaiety  and  good 
spirits. 

"  What  are  you  coming  back  for,  mates  ?"  we  asked 
them.  Some  of  them  said  nothing,  but  merely  opened 
their  empty  cartridge  pouches.  Others  replied  that  there 
were  no  more  cartridges,  that  the  Sofia  Regiment,  which 
was  in  front,  had  relieved  them,  and  that  the  Turks  had 
fallen  back. 

"  Oh  you  !" 

"  Why  '  Oh  you  '  ?  You  go  yourself  two  days  without 
food.  Besides,  there  are  no  cartridges.  A  soldier  without 
cartridges  is  like  a  pipe  without  tobacco,"  said  one  of  the 
Nevsky 's,  knocking  out  his  pipe.  "  Turn  back  ?  Yes 
if  they  came  at  us,  but  when  it  is  a  case  of  they  firing  and 
we  firing,  there's  nothing  in  it.     Chum,  give  me  a  draw." 


348  THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR 

He  had  a  puff  or  two,  and  then  ran  to  catch  up  his 
company. 

A  battery  came  trotting  past,  and  we  followed  behind 
it.  The  sun  was  setting  and  was  gilding  everything. 
We  went  down  into  a  ravine  where  a  small  stream  was 
flowing.  Ten  gigantic  black  poplars  hid  the  spot  like  a 
roof  where  we  again  halted.  The  ambulance  waggons 
were  drawn  up  in  several  rows.  The  doctors,  dressers, 
and  hospital  orderlies  were  hurrying  about  and  making 
preparations  for  bandaging.  The  guns  were  booming  not 
far  away,  and  became  ever  increasingly  frequent. 

Two  more  battalions  passed  us.  Evidently  we  had  been 
left  in  reserve.  We  were  led  to  one  side,  piled  arms,  and 
laid  down  on  ground  which  was  covered  with  soft,  fragrant 
smelling  mint. 

I  lay  on  my  back  and  gazed  through  the  branches  at 
the  darkening  sky.  The  giant  trunks,  which  would  have 
required  some  half-dozen  men  to  span  their  girth,  had 
shot  up  and  thrown  out  branches  which  had  interlaced 
with  each  other.  Only  here  and  there  could  there  be 
seen  a  little  star  in  the  now  blue-black  sky,  and  far,  far 
away  they  seemed,  as  if  in  the  depth  of  some  abyss  from 
which  they  were  peacefully  grazing.  The  booming  of 
guns  continued,  and  the  tops  of  the  trees  momentarily 
reflected  the  red  glare  which  appeared  immediately  before 
each  report,  making  them  look  even  more  terrible  and 
dismal.  There  was  no  sound  of  rifle-fire.  Probably  it 
was  what  is  known  in  military  parlance  as  an  artillery 
preparation  for  an  attack. 

I  lay  there  half  dozing  ;  around  me  the  men  were  talking 
quietly  and  with  restraint.  I  remember  now  a  curious 
circumstance  which  at  the  time  did  not  occur  to  me. 
No  one,  by  so  much  as  a  word,  hinted  at  or  recalled  the 
fact  that  there  was  another  world  for  him,  with  home, 
relatives,  and  friends.  All  appeared  to  have  forgotten 
their  former  life.  They  talked  about  this  menacing  boom 
of  cannon,  why  the  Nevsky  Regiment  had  gone  back,  and 


THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR  349 

why  they  had  not  had  ammunition  brought  them.  They 
conjectured  on  the  strength  of  the  Turks,  and  what  of  our 
force  was  engaged.  Was  it  only  the  three  regiments 
(Nevsky,  Sofia,  and  Bolkhovs),  or  both  divisions  ? 

"  But  perhaps  the  Eleventh  Brigade  will  be  in  time 
also.     We'll  give  it  hot  to  them." 

*'  Don't  say  that.  Who  can  tell  ?  Perhaps  they  have 
brought  all  their  strength.  If  only  we  can  hold  them  it 
will  be  all  right.     They  will  not  ask  more  from  us." 

"  Yes,  that's  right.  Besides,  they  say  we  are  not 
allowed  to  attack." 

*'  Who  told  you  that  ?" 

"  Ivanoff,  the  staff -clerk.     He  is  a  countryman  of  mine." 

"  How  can  your  Ivanoff  know  ?"  said  the  man  doubt- 
fully. 

The  tops  of  the  poplars  commenced  to  pale  and  the 
leaves  took  on  a  silvery  hue  as  they  softly  reflected  the 
moonlight.  The  moon  had  risen,  but  we  could  not  see 
it,  as  we  were  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  ravine.  Never- 
theless, it  became  a  little  lighter.  A  mounted  officer 
showed  up  on  the  brink  of  the  ravine  and  shouted  des- 
pairingly :  "  Send  forward  the  cartridge  boxes  of  the 
Sofia  Regiment."  But  the  boxes  were  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  ravine,  and  in  spite  of  all  his  shouting  his  voice 
did  not  carry  to  the  ammunition  carts.  One  of  our 
officers  called  out,  "  Pass  the  word  along."  Whereupon 
there  commenced  something  in  the  nature  of  what  musi- 
cians call  a  fugue.  Somebody  shouted  "  Cartridges  boxes 
forward  !"  another  began  the  same  phrase  as  the  first 
called  out  "  boxes,"  and  a  third  took  it  up  when  the 
second  finished  "  cartridges."  At  any  rate  the  slumber- 
ing ammunition  carriers  woke  up,  and,  putting  their 
horses  at  the  gallop,  crossed  over  the  ravine. 

In  ten  minutes'  time  musketry  fire  commenced.  The 
ear,  which  at  first  had  listened  painfully  to  each  shot, 
grew  tired.  Moreover,  sleep  was  calling.  Soon  the  shots 
became  one   confused  roar,   somewhat    resembling    the 


350  THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR 

noise  of  a  waterfall ;  then  it,  too,  died  down.     I  dropped 
asleep. 

"  Rise  !" 

The  voice  of  our  battalion  commander  awoke  me.  All 
got  up,  stretched  themselves,  and  threw  their  great- 
coats, which  had  but  just  served  as  pillows,  over  their 
shoulders. 

''  Take  up  arms  !"  The  guns  had  not  ceased  firing. 
We  clambered  out  of  the  ravine,  and  went  along  a  wide 
road  made  by  the  artillery.  The  flashes  of  the  shots  were 
already  nearer,  and  their  sounds  became  unpleasantly 
loud.  Immediately  following  the  flash,  which  pierced  the 
air  like  a  needle,  came  a  thunderous  roar,  after  which 
something  rang  as  it  cut  its  way  through  the  air.  These 
were  our  shells,  which  were  flying  towards  the  gloomy 
precipitous  heights  occupied  by  the  Turks.  The  gunners 
worked  their  guns  silently,  keeping  up  a  continuous  fire. 
Sometimes  two  guns  united  their  roar,  and  two  shells 
flew  simultaneously,  bursting  on  the  slope  of  the  mountain, 
right  in  the  Turkish  firing-line. 

We  continued  to  advance.  It  was  two  versts  to  the 
summit.  The  even  and  wide  road  had  come  to  an  end, 
and  we  entered  a  straggling  wood  all  overgrown  with 
bushes.  It  was  difficult  work,  especially  in  the  darkness, 
making  our  way  through  the  gorse  and  bushes,  but  the 
men  conscientiously  kept  their  dressing.  Some  large 
stone  slabs  placed  end  up  came  into  view.  It  was  a 
Mussulman  cemetery,  in  which  were  real  Mahometan 
monuments — stones  roughly  hewn  at  the  top  in  the  form 
of  a  turban.     Here  we  halted. 

The  moon  lit  up  strongly  the  mountain  behind  which 
the  battle  was  raging.  At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  was 
a  line  of  flashes — our  firing-line — and  above  it  another 
and  thicker  line — the  Turkish  firing-line.  These  lines 
kept  intermingling.  The  Sofia  Regiment  was  attacking. 
The  upper  flashes  kept  showing  up  higher  and  higher  and 
farther  and  farther  away.     But  we  could  not  follow  the 


THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR  351 

fight  very  long  because  they  led  us  ofi  somewhere  to  the 
flank  and  posted  each  company  separately.  From  these 
points  we  could  once  more  see  the  little  flashes  of  flame, 
and  the  sound  of  these  shots,  as  of  something  blunt  and 
wooden,  fell  without  ceasing  on  our  ears.  But  soon  it 
was  more  than  sounds  which  reached  us. 

"  S-s-s  .  .  .  s-s-s  .  .  .  s-s-s  ..."  resounded  in  the  air 
above  us,  left  and  right. 

"  Bullets  !"  cried  someone. 

"  All  right  !  Lie  down.  .  .  .  They  have  come  to  die 
here." 

It  was  quite  true,  the  bullets  w^ere  already  spent,  as  can 
always  be  told  by  their  sound.  A  bullet  when  fired  at 
close  range  squeals  and  whistles,  but  when  it  '*  comes  to 
die  "  merely  hisses  like  a  snake. 

The  bullets  continued  to  fly  around  us.  The  company 
kept  silent.  The  tense  feeling  which  involuntarily 
showed  itself  at  the  sound  of  these  heralds  of  death 
relaxed.  All  began  to  imagine  that  the  bullets  were 
merely  flying  over  us  or  dropping  harmlessly  to  earth. 
Some  of  the  men,  having  taken  off  their  great-coats, 
settled  themselves  down  to  sleep  more  comfortably,  if 
it  is  possible  to  sleep  comfortably  under  a  shower  of 
bullets,  on  ruts  of  dried  mud,  and  holding  a  rifle  in  one's 
hands.  I,  too,  dozed.  It  was  a  heavy,  torturing  slumber. 
Not  far  from  us — I  think  in  the  7th  company — there 
was  a  sudden  commotion.  "  Take  him  away,"  I  heard. 
**  Where  can  we  take  him  ?  .  .  ."  broke  in  someone.  I  did 
not  hear  the  end  of  the  remark.  Ivan  Nicolaievitch  sent 
to  find  out  what  had  happened.  It  appeared  that  a 
bullet  which  had  "  come  to  die  "  did  not  wish  to  die  alone, 
and  had  actually  buried  itself  in  the  heart  of  a  soldier. 
This  death  caused  a  painful  depressing  impression.  To 
be  killed  without  seeing  the  enemy  by  a  bullet  w^hich  has 
travelled  three  thousand  paces  (two  versts)  seemed  to 
all  as  something  fateful,  awful.  However,  little  by  little 
all  became  quiet,  the  men  calmed  down  again,  and  began 


352  THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR 

to  doze.  A  not  loud,  harsh  sound  awoke  everyone.  A 
bullet  had  gone  clean  through  the  side  of  the  big  drum. 
Somebody  was  found  even  to  make  a  joke  about  it,  which 
met,  however,  with  general  disapproval.  "  This  is  no 
time  to  play  the  fool,"  growled  the  men. 

Everyone  was  rather  on  the  alert,  everyone  was  waiting 
for  something.  A  bullet  found  its  way  into  the  cartridge 
pouch  of  one  of  the  men,  who,  pale  and  trembling,  carried 
it  off  to  show  the  company  commander.  Ivan  Nico- 
laievitch  examined  the  bullet  attentively,  and  noting  from 
its  calibre  that  it  had  been  fired  from  a  Peabody  and 
Martini  rifle,  moved  the  company  into  a  kind  of  bend  in 
the  road. 

Here  we,  notwithstanding  the  whistling  and  hissing, 
became  calmer.  Shouts  of  "  Hurrah  !"  resounded  on 
the  mountain.  It  was  the  Sofia  Regiment  storming  the 
position. 

IV 

I  aw^oke  when  it  was  still  almost  dark.  My  sides  ached 
unendurably.  The  bullets  were  flying  as  before,  but  now- 
very  high  in  the  air  above  us.  There  were  no  flashes  to 
be  seen  on  the  mountain,  but  a  frequent  cannonade  could 
be  heard.  "  It  means  that  the  mountain  has  been  taken 
and  the  Sofia  Regiment  is  holding  the  crest,"  I  reflected. 

The  sun  had  scarcely  risen  when  they  roused  us.  The 
men  got  up,  yawning  and  stretching  themselves.  It  was 
cold.  The  majority  of  us  were  shivering  and  shaking  as 
if  in  a  fever.  The  companies  mustered  at  the  spring, 
and  both  our  battalions  (2nd  and  3rd)  moved  off  towards 
the  mountain. 

Immediately  after  crossing  the  Lom  by  a  small  bridge 
the  road  led  up  the  mountain.  At  first  the  ascent,  al- 
though all  covered  with  bushes,  was  bearable,  but  the 
higher  we  got  the  steeper  became  the  slope  and  the 
narrower  the  road.  Finally  we  were  compelled  to 
clamber  up  one  by  one,  sometimes  helping  ourselves  up 


THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR  353 

with  our  rifles.  The  companies  got  mixed  together  with 
officers  of  another  battalion ;  our  Colonel  appeared 
amongst  us,  having  clambered  with  difficulty  on  to  the 
heights.  "  What  a  brute  of  a  mountain  !''  he  exclaimed 
to  his  Adjutant.  *'  How  did  the  Sofia  Regiment  manage 
to  take  it  ?" 

'*  It  was  difficult,  sir,"  said  some  tiny  little  soldier  of 
the  8th  company. 

The  Sofia  Regiment  came  down  as  we  went  forward  to 
relieve  them.  Worn  out  by  a  sleepless  night,  by  thirst 
and  nervous  excitement,  they  were  somewhat  unstrung, 
and  made  no  reply  to  our  questions  as  to  whether  there 
were  many  Turks  and  whether  the  fire  was  hot.  Only  a 
few  said  quietly,  "  God  help  you  !" 

At  length  we  got  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain.  At 
the  last  the  ascent  lay  up  an  absolutely  overhanging  crag. 
Beneath  it  was  a  small  ledge  where  the  companies  could 
reform  without  danger  from  the  fire.  Although  the 
difficult  ascent,  the  bushes,  and  the  narrow  track  had 
absolutely  mixed  us  up,  the  men  re-formed  and  fell  into 
their  proper  places  extraordinarily  quickly.  The  bullets 
as  they  flew  past  the  ledge  caterwauled  above  us  in  a 
piercing  and  extremely  unpleasant  manner.  Here  be- 
neath the  crag  it  was  safe,  but  what  was  it  like  on  it  ? 
Branches  of  the  bushes  growing  on  the  crest  cracked  as 
they  were  smashed  by  the  bullets,  sometimes  a  few  leaves 
came  twirling  do\\Ti.  We  moved  to  the  right,  at  first 
under  the  ledge,  then  little  by  little  began  to  clamber  up 
one  by  one  from  boulder  to  boulder.  Having  got  round 
the  crag,  we  crawled  out  on  to  the  extreme  summit  and 
moved  between  the  dense  high  bushes.  I  don't  know 
who  was  leading  us.  All  moved  in  the  direction  of  the 
firing,  pushing  along  with  difficulty  between  the  bushes. 
At  last  we  came  upon  a  narrow  track.  "Forward! 
Double  !  "  Here  there  were  lying  fresh  corpses,  both  of 
ours  and  of  Turks.  The  wounded  were  already  being 
carried  along  toward  us.      The  little  man  of  the  8th 

23 


354  THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR 

company  who  had  so  boldly  entered  into  conversation 
with  the  regimental  Colonel  was  now  half  delirious,  wail- 
ing pitifully,  and  with  one  hand  supporting  the  other, 
from  which  a  stream  of  blood  was  flowing.  We  con- 
tinued to  rush  forw^ard,  and  at  length  arrived  at  an  open 
space. emt  llti  e  Major  F.  was  already  there,  walking 
unconcedly  up  and  down  the  firing-line.  "  Where 
shall  I  go.  Major  ?"  I  asked.  He  made  no  reply,  but 
pointed  to  the  left  with  his  sword.  I  ran  forward,  throw- 
ing myself  once  to  the  ground  to  avoid  a  bursting  shell. 
Ivan  Nicolaievitch  was  slowly  pacing  up  and  down,  tugging 
at  his  straggly  hairs. 

"  Ivan  Nicolaievitch,"  I  called  out.  "  I  don't  know 
where  our  half  section  is.     May  I  join  the  first  ?" 

**  Go  along,  go  along  quickly  !"  he  said,  looking  beyond 
at  the  Turkish  line. 

However,  it  was  impossible  to  find  either  the  first  or 
second  half  section.  Everyone  had  become  mixed  up 
in  the  wood,  and  it  was  too  late  to  re-form  under  rifle  and 
shell  fire.  I  laid  down  behind  the  first  hillock  I  cam^e 
across  and  began  to  fire.  On  one  side  of  me  I  found  our 
corporal  and  on  the  other  side  a  man  of  the  Sofia  Regi- 
ment. **  You  should  have  gone,  chum,"  I  said  to  him. 
*'  Your  lot  have  gone — left  this." 

"  Yes,  but  never  mind,  I  shall  stay  until  the  end,"  he 
replied.  I  do  not  know  what  his  name  was.  I  do  not 
even  know  whether  he  is  still  alive,  but  I  shall  always 
remember  the  enthusiastic  tone  of  his  voice. 

The  Turkish  sharpshooters  were  about  eight  hundred 
paces  from  us,  so  that  our  rifles  scarcely  did  them  much 
harm.  Moreover,  a  whole  row  of  Turkish  guns  were  in  posi- 
tion from  twelve  hundred  to  fifteen  hundred  paces  from  us, 
and  raining  shell  on  our  weak  firing-line.  Although  bullets 
cause  many  more  deaths  and  wounds,  yet  shells  have  a 
far  greater  moral  effect.  I  lay,  firing  at  intervals,  and 
every  now  and  then  consulting  Paul  Ignatich  (our  corporal) 
as  to  the  sights  and  whether  it  would  not  be  better  to  fire 


THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR  355 

on  chance  at  the  artillery.  The  bullets  began  to  whistle 
amongst  us  oftener  and  oftener.  At  last  it  became  im- 
possible to  distinguish  individual  shots.  It  became  one 
continuous  hum.  Shells  came  flying  along  screaming 
from  afar.  As  they  neared  us  they  no  longer  screamed, 
but  crashed  and  bounded  along  the  ground,  bursting  and 
smothering  us  with  splinters  and  earth.  I  raised  myself 
to  see  what  was  happening  in  our  firing-line.  From  time 
to  time  there  arose  a  wild  cry  from  amongst  those  lying 
down.  Those  standing  behind  trees  would  fall  on  to  their 
knees  sometimes  with  a  cry,  sometimes  without  a  sound. 
Gabriel  Vassilich,  who  had  only  just  arrived,  and  was 
loading  his  rifle,  fell  headlong.  A  shell  splinter  had 
struck  him  in  the  stomach,  tearing  out  his  vitals.  Such 
of  the  wounded  as  were  able  crawled  away,  for  the  most 
part  silently,  or  perhaps  it  was  that  their  groans  could 
not  be  heard  above  the  din  of  battle. 

I  began  to  shoot  again.  The  Turks  had  collected 
below  the  deep  valley,  on  the  other  edge  of  which  was 
their  artillery,  and  were  advancing  to  attack  our  firing- 
line.  The  range  became  closer.  Paul  Ignatiovich  kept 
methodically  loading  and  firing.  I,  too,  did  not  spare 
my  cartridges,  because  it  was  easy  to  take  aim.  Dark 
figures  with  red  heads  coming  towards  us  kept  falling, 
but  they  still  advanced.  Suddenly  the  red  heads  dis- 
appeared. I  do  not  know  if  it  was  the  unevenness  of 
the  ground  or  the  bushes  which  hid  the  columns.  Having 
lost  the  near  object  at  which  to  aim,  I  commenced  once 
more  to  fire  at  long  range  into  the  masses  standing  at  the 
bottom  of  the  valley,  and  scarcely  noticed  that  both  Paul 
Ignatich  and  the  soldier  of  the  Sofia  Regiment  and  our 
firing-line  had  disappeared.  I  turned  round.  The  men 
had  collected  in  groups,  and  were  pouring  a  hot  fire  into 
the  advancing  Turks.  I  was  alone  between  our  men  and 
the  Turkish  column. 

What  was  I  to  do  ?  This  thought  had  scarcely  flashed 
into  my  head  when  I  heard  my  name  called  out  near  me. 


356  THE  ACTION  AT  AISLAR 

I  looked  down.  At  my  feet  lay  Feodoroff,  the  young 
soldier  of  our  company  who,  having  resided  in  St.  Peters- 
burg, had  seized  '*  civilization,"  and  could  express  himself 
in  an  almost  educated  manner.  Now  he  was  lying  white 
as  this  sheet  of  paper.  A  torrent  of  blood  was  flowing 
from  his  shoulder.  "V.  M.,  old  man,  give  me  a  drink, 
carry  me  off,  take  me  away,"  he  begged  piteously.  I 
forgot  everything — both  Turks  and  bullets.  For  me  to 
lift  sturdy  Feodoroff  unaided  was  out  of  the  question,  and 
of  ours  there  was  no  one,  in  spite  of  my  despairing  cries, 
who  could  make  up  his  mind  to  race  even  those  thirty 
paces  to  help. 

Seeing  an  officer,  the  young  subaltern  S.,  I  began  to 
call  out  to  him  :  "  Ivan  Nicolaievitch,  help  !  No  one  will 
come  !  Help  me  !"  Perhaps  S.  would  have  come,  but  a 
bullet  laid  him  low.  I  was  almost  crying.  .  .  .  Finally 
two  soldiers — I  think  of  our  company — rushed  towards 
me.  We  seized  hold  of  Feodoroff,  who  continued  cease- 
lessly to  cry  out  piteously,  *'  Take  me  away,  old  man,  for 
Christ's  sake  !"  I  took  hold  of  his  legs  and  the  other 
two  his  shoulders.  At  the  same  moment  they  dropped 
him  on  to  the  ground.  "  The  Turks,  the  Turks  !"  they 
yelled,  bolting.  Feodoroff  was  dead.  I  turned  round. 
Twenty  paces  distant  from  me  the  Turkish  column  had 
halted,  surprised,  and  frightened  of  our  bayonets.  .  .  . 

^  1*  T*  •!•  *P 

A  minute  later  something  like  a  huge  stone  struck  me. 
I  fell.  Blood  was  flowing  like  a  stream  from  my  leg. 
I  remember  that  I  suddenly  recalled  everything — home, 
relatives,  and  friends,  and  with  joy  reflected  that  I  should 
once  more  see  them.  .  .  . 


THE    END 


BILLING  AND    SONS,   LTD.,    PRINTERS,    GUILDFORD 


